


that strain, again (with a dying fall)

by gaolcrowofmandos (imperialhuxness)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (he's just awful at handling them), Anxiety, Armitage Hux Has Feelings, M/M, Murderous Intentions, Post-Canon, Soft Kylux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-02-18 12:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13099998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperialhuxness/pseuds/gaolcrowofmandos
Summary: After the coup and the loss on Crait, Hux must come to grips with his new position. Good thing he's completely buried his feelings for Kylo Ren, right?...“Of course,” says Ren, and then - as if nothing has changed since the ill-fated droid mission, as if Starkiller hasn’t collapsed into the void, as if Snoke isn’t dead, and there isn’t a ring of bruises around Hux’s neck - Ren uncurls his fist and covers Hux’s fingers with his own.





	1. i.

_"No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;  
_ _Am an attendant lord, one that will do  
_ _To swell a progress, start a scene or two,  
_ _Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,  
_ _Deferential, glad to be of use,  
_ _Politic, cautious, and meticulous;  
_ _Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;  
_ _At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--  
_ _Almost, at times, the Fool."_

(T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock)

* * *

Hux’s head is still ringing with something that probably isn’t concussion. The dimness of this ruin of a fortress should be _helping_ , but fierce, white light streams through the mine’s entrance. Though Hux’s back is to it, it gnaws at the corners of his eyes, makes it feel like there’s a blaster bolt pulsing through his skull.

“Orders, sir?” The trooper’s hushed voice nonetheless echoes in the rotunda.

The troopers have stayed close, gazes darting between the high ceiling and the bins of brittle red salt shards scattered around the room. Hux purses his lips. Even he doesn’t have any fucking orders. He’d figured Ren- no, _the Supreme Leader_ \- no, _his commander_ must have ordered reconnaissance of the ruins for intelligence purposes, once it became apparent the insurgents had gone.

(insurgents, insurgents, insurgents. Nothing more. The Order reigns. This is the clean-up phase.)

Anyway, he’d _figured_ it was an intelligence mission. Apparently, however, the Supreme Leader just wanted to kneel in the dirt and look at things that aren’t here.

“General?”

What the hell. They’re all here anyway. Ren can waste his own time, but Hux and his army have rebels to track.

“Scour the complex for any exploitable materials.” Hux’s voice is feeble in his own ears. “Tamper with nothing. Retain anything of intelligence value for the Documents and Media unit on the _Finalizer_.”

“Yes, sir.” Several troopers chime the affirmation, then disperse in pairs, armor glaring amid the shadows. Hux averts his eyes, closes them against the flashes of white, and finds the same glare behind his eyelids.

Placing a hand on the stone wall to steady himself against impending vertigo, he wills the white gone, focuses on the black specks in its midst. They bleed against the white, spreading into voids and abysses. Into silence and oblivion. He lets them drown him.

(for a little while)

The black isn’t so empty. It’s shot through with five red beams. It reverberates with the Commandant’s voice, all muffled. All he can catch is _performanceperformanceperformanceperformanceperformance_ , crackling like a bad holo connection. A shimmer of gold, tinged with dark blood. _Performanceperformance my marks are slipping, I need to study--_

Hux’s hand slips, and he opens his eyes with a chill like beetles crawling down his arms. Gods, how long was he out? Most of the troopers are mulling about in his vicinity, still looking busy, but some hold containers: of the red salt, of a couple of motherboards, of broken antennae. The white light in his peripherals seems yellower. Through the entrance in front of Hux, Ren is still kneeling in the dirt, stone-still.

Maybe he’s meditating -- but no, his pose is too rigid, and what’s more, he’s touching the ground. (At once Hux can picture him in Hux’s own chambers on the _Finalizer_ , bare arms bent on crossed legs, eyes shut, an inch above the floor. Peaceful, almost vulnerable.)

Ren’s lips aren’t moving now either, which luckily rules out the activation of any psychic bonds. How long has it _been_? Perhaps long enough for him to burrow so deep into himself he’ll get lost finding his way out.

“JX-0923.” She should have the time. Hux turns carefully toward her, clasping his hands behind his back with effort.

“General.” No question in her tone, just deference.

“What was the standard time when you began reconnaissance?”

“Approximately fifteen-thirty, sir.”

“What is the current standard time?”

She extracts a datapad from under her mantle. “Sixteen oh-eight, sir.”

Shit. Not only has he himself managed to _sleep leaning against a wall_ for over half an hour, Ren doesn’t appear to have moved in just as long.

“As you were.” Hux dismisses the trooper with a nod; she returns to scanning the ground.

Hux’s blaster is heavy under his greatcoat, and Ren’s eyes are shut, and it would be so _easy_ . If this weren’t possibly a test, if the Jedi weren’t a viable threat to the Order, if Hux had any personal capacity to wage war on that particular plane of reality, if Ren still wore the mask and his hair weren’t falling in his face like this-- _Stop._

It doesn’t matter (nothing does). Hux has to do this:

One: Step into the doorway and let the light hit him in the side of the face.

Two: Blink furiously and clear his throat as loudly as possible

Three: Choke on the words “Supreme Leader,” but say them anyway, at an equally decent volume.

No response. Oh _. Excellent._ Hux bites his lip and resists the urge to roll his eyes (primarily due to the persistent throbbing in his skull). He takes a few more steps, until he’s halfway between Ren and the entrance.

“Supreme. Leader. Ren.”

Nothing. _Alternatively, just leave him here._ He’s only going to complicate things moving forward. If only he weren’t so goddamn _necessary_.

Hux realizes with a strange flicker of clarity that Ren’s kneeling how he used to in Snoke’s presence, how Hux never (voluntarily) had. But now Ren’s doing the same thing in the dirt on this useless mineral planet, in some kind of Force-trance, and it would be so eas-- (not now, not yet).

Hux steps forward again, making his footfalls as loud as possible against the packed earth. Then he’s standing directly over Ren, their faint shadows mingling on the floor in front of them.

“Supreme Leader?” Softer now. The dark head stays bowed.

 _He’s probably just fucking with you. He probably sensed you in the doorway, and he’s definitely sensing you now, and he knows you’re thinking about your blaster and his hair and--_ The thoughts roll in, the usual ugly inundation of horror scenarios and hypotheses. Hux unclasps his hands and moves them to his sides, clenching and unclenching his fingers against the stiff black fabric of the gloves. Ren hasn’t stirred.

 _He sees right through you._ Maybe so. _But if he did, he’d stop me right now._

Hux rounds Ren’s form so he’s standing in front of him, then kneels. Or more accurately, crouches. His dignity may have been tarnished on Ren’s account, but he can at least spare his uniform the same fate.

Here on the ground--in the dust, in the dirt he’s actively ignoring--Hux is closer to Ren than he intended, their knees mere centimeters apart.

 _Look at you, grovelling before Ren for the second time today_. Hux isn’t. He isn’t, he isn’t, he isn’t. _I need him._ No. That’s imprecise. Revise and re-submit: _He’s necessary._

“Ren.” No titles, no obeisance. Just the name, hanging in the space between them like battle debris, like a question.

The Supreme Leader opens his eyes, and damn him, if they aren’t ringed with the same pathetic shimmer of liquid that’s been betraying Ren ever since he broke the mask.

It’s unseemly. If he can’t keep his composure, he needs to cover his face and stop being such a goddamn embarrassment to the Order. _The Order?_ It’s _Ren’s_ Order now, Hux reminds himself, and he’s going to do to it what he pleases.

 _He probably_ heard _that; stop_ thinking--

“It- it isn’t supposed to be like this.” Ren’s voice is low, and his gaze darts between Hux’s eyes and the dirt. “This- empty.”

_Of course it’s empty in here, Ren. Of course it’s empty because your ridiculous vendetta has once again impeded our progress._

Hux swallows, excises the thought as soon as it forms. What he says is: “Yes. We’re too late. The troopers are reconnoitering the mine for any indicator of the _Millen-_ of _the Resistance ship’s_ flight plan. They’ll finish soon, and it’ll be best if you--”

“Not the mine, Hux.” Something in Hux’s chest clenches, not at the neglect of his title, probably out of hunger or stress. “All of this,” Ren continues, thickly. “The galaxy’s at my fingertips, and everything Snoke ever said- _predicted_ about my destiny and the Dark Side, is _this close_ to coming true. But I-” He lowers his head again and traces a finger though the dirt. “I feel nothing.”

“Apathy,” says Hux, sharper than is wise,“that’s a first for you.” This doesn’t quite look like apathy, though. It’s closer to a nihilistic spin on Ren’s typical histrionics - in which case, Hux _really_ has neither time nor patience for it. “I have every confidence it will pass-” (Just the slightest hesitation.) “-Supreme Leader. In the meantime, we need to get off-planet. Quickly.”

“Why.”

 _Oh, God. Not this, not now._ Hux can’t tell if it’s bait or blank despair. “I’m not going to answer that,” he says. “You know damn well why this isn’t finished yet.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and say it? It’d be good for you.” Ren stares at his own knees, blinking slowly. His eyelashes are infuriatingly long, dark against his skin.

“Say _what_ , Ren,” Hux all but hisses. “‘I told you so’? Not the sanest option for keeping my windpipe functioning, is it?”

Unexpectedly, Ren’s lip quirks slightly upward. “Say it anyway. I need to hear it out loud.”

“Hear _what_ , Ren?” _My treasonous intentions? A romantic confession?_ “I won’t be party to an existential crisis--you don’t have time for it. Every minute wasted is another parsec between us and that freighter.”

“There’s a start. Keep going.”

Hux doesn’t. Not exactly. This is futile and absurd. “Now that Snoke’s gone, you need someone else to berate you?”

“Historically you’ve been fairly good at it.” Ren should say that with a smile, or the echo of one, but he doesn’t, instead his tone stays hollow, and he stands. Hux scrambles to his feet after him, reflexively brushing off his uniform even as black spots whirl before his eyes.

“That was before I was your direct report, Supreme Leader.” Hux takes a step backward, and his hand strays to his neck, where a red and violet supernova blossoms under his collar, an impressionistic masterpiece of fingerprints. A reminder. “It is no longer my prerogative.”

“You wish it were.” Ren’s tone is pensive more than anything. “Don’t think I can’t tell.”

In this light, Hux can hardly distinguish Ren’s pupils from his dark irises. It’s alarmingly like being stared at by a hole in space.

“My wishes-” Hux bites his lip. “-are hardly relevant. We have work at hand.”

Despite the dust on his gloves, Ren runs a hand through his hair. “I know.” He follows Hux out of the room.

* * *

Later, on the _Finalizer_ (back at last) _,_ Ren’s fingers drum the console in front of the primary viewport. He ought to change his gloves; he’s going to smudge dust on the durasteel. “Hux, as soon as we find my fath- _that_ ship, we’re going to blow it straight to hell.”

“No prisoners,” says Hux, dispassionately. Even aboard his own ship (in his own one-time domain) he knows better than to argue. He takes a sip of tea and mentally catalogues the stars in front of them.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” says Ren. “But it sounds like you’d like to try?”

Hux swallows another sip. The strong herbs (and hydration) should be helping with the headache, but the throbbing persists.

This has to be some kind of test, Ren determining how contentious a tool he’ll be. ( _Your marks are slipping._ ) Hux inhales. This is dangerous. _Just go along with him, just go the fuck_ along _and save yourself. It isn’t worth the gamble, it’s--_ He can’t stop himself.

“Well, on the off chance that another ship or base--or even alliance-- _does_ exist, it may be prudent to conduct a few interrogations.” Hux’s mind draws a graph behind the stars ahead, fine blue lines to pin the universe in place. In his peripheral vision, Ren inclines his head.

“However,” Hux continues, placating, “a decisive strike against the entire ship would be more effective against the two Force-users. And the Supreme Leader’s personal catharsis is an equally high priority for the Order’s stability.”

“Personal catharsis.” Ren hmms quietly. “Since when is that _your_ army’s priority?” Ren clenches, unclenches, clenches his fingers. To keep his own from shaking, Hux grips the mug until he can feel his knuckles whitening under the glove. The other hand he splays across the console beside Ren’s fist.

“The Supreme Leader is the Order,” Hux says, obsequious, shamefully afraid. “His family affairs take the military and political priority he assigns them.” _Snivel some more, why don’t you?_ Whatever. _This is a survival tactic._

“This isn’t like you and your fath-- the Commandant.” Ren’s voice is satin-soft ( _serpent-soft,_ most likely). “This is the most basic dimension of the entire war. You and I, the Resistance, all our fleets and machinations, we’re- we’re like water-speeders on the surface of an ocean. _This_ \- the Force - it’s the current underneath pushing us forward, or the maelstrom dragging us down.” Ren swallows, visibly. “Weren’t you watching me and Skywalker on Crait?”

“After I’d recovered,” Hux manages, attempting dignity while _you and I, you and I, you and I_ burns through his brain like atomic radiation. He sips his tea.

Of course he was watching, ears ringing, ribs on fire, trembling for at least three reasons he understood and at least six he didn’t. He’d recovered fairly quickly too, quick enough to watch Ren’s footprints show up crimson against the white salt. Quick enough to think, inexplicably, idiotically, of blood in the snow on Starkiller, while the world fell to pieces under his feet.

“Are you?” says Ren, and he’s looking at Hux with an unnerving keenness. Hux blinks. The bridge is stable; nothing’s falling.

“Am I _what._ ”

“Quite recovered?”

Hux’s reply comes out candid, caustic: “From your shoving me against a wall?”

“When you put it that way…” Ren’s lips twitch, almost wryly. “It was hardly the first time.”

It isn’t fair, what the quip does to Hux, pulls him back to _those nights,_ to Ren’s lips on his, greedy, desperate; to a heap of mingled, tangled black fabric on the floor--greatcoat and cowl and tunic and cloak and two pairs of gloves.

Nights on the _Finalizer_ , on the _Absolution--_ in his father’s old chambers, because they could, because _fuck you_ to expectations and propriety, because _we are young_ and _we are mighty_ and _one day we’ll arrive._ Nights of _I love you, Hux_ ; of Snoke’s bruises and _Ren, I’m going to save you_.

And after: calm, warmth, and something like safety. After: curling into the paradoxical solidity of a man who is--who _was_ , and is no longer--so irresistibly fragile.

(It isn’t fair, what Ren does to Hux.)

Hux, however, sips his tea and smiles thinly. “Thank you for your concern.”

Ren’s gaze drops from Hux’s face to their hands on the console, both of his own and Hux’s left.

“Of course,” he says, and then - as if nothing has changed since the ill-fated droid mission, as if Starkiller hasn’t collapsed into the void, as if Snoke isn’t dead, and there isn’t a ring of bruises around Hux’s neck - Ren uncurls his fist and covers Hux’s fingers with his own.

Hux’s pulse instantly accelerates, with a carnal instinct that is _alm_ _ost certainly_ fear. Ren gnaws his lower lip for a second.

“Your glove is dirty.” Hux moves to withdraw his hand, but Ren tightens his grip.

“So?”

“‘ _So?’_ ” Hux hisses, at once acutely aware of the hum of conversation among the officers seated behind them. _Just let him do it, it doesn’t matter, whatever it takes to stay alive, bide your time-_ No. Some things, Hux cannot allow. He yanks his hand to his side. “We aren’t doing this, _Supreme Leader._ ”

“You did it.”

“I was…” Hux gropes for words. “...taking your pulse.”

“In the top of my hand.” Ren’s lips contort dangerously, as if a laugh might break out.

Ren didn’t see himself in the medbay, after Starkiller. He didn’t see the tubes and needles poking into him, the cadaverous gray pallor of his skin. He didn’t watch the shallow blue cosine-curve of his heart rate on the monitors. He didn’t sit by the bedside, looking at the feeble, bloodless, nerveless hand resting on the coverlet. He didn’t look at that hand and almost- _almost_ \- regret.

Hux raises his mug and drains it. “That was different,” he says. “I’m not actively dying.”

“Neither was I.” Ren tilts his head to one side, eyes bright.

“Well, you came damn close.” Hux sighs. This is ridiculous. “It hardly matters now, does it?”

“You would have grieved for me,” Ren observes. “It would have absolutely destroyed you.”

Hux can feel Ren’s touch on the surface of his mind, light as a brush-stroke. He must be trying to plant a thought, rather than extract one. _It isn’t working._

“Once,” Hux says. “No longer.” He steps away from the viewport and back to the work. He’s surprised to feel Ren’s touch recede.

* * *

Hux has a six-hour sleep cycle scheduled, but for all he’s bone-weary, he doubts he’ll use all of it. It’ll take an hour of staring at the ceiling just to process everything before he can even begin to relax, and afterward there’s the problem of _staying_ asleep.

Still, his rooms on the _Finalizer_ have a way of putting him at ease. They look little different from his temporary chambers on other ships (the same sharp, silver lines of the furniture, the black rugs, the blue chairs), but there’s something home-like about these rooms that he’s never fully appreciated. Or at least they’re warmer than what he’s been using for the past few days on the _Supremacy_.

He drapes his greatcoat over the chair at his desk, slips off his boots, and makes quick work of his tunic. Gooseflesh immediately covers the bare skin, but it doesn’t stop him from pausing in front of the mirror.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he murmurs. _Behold Ren’s handiwork._

The abrasions ring Hux’s throat and coat his left side--rib cage to hip bone, before disappearing under his breeches. They complement the dark shadows under his eyes. This looks like the aftermath of a fight at the Academy, minus the blood.

The thoughts start clamoring: _disgustinghorriblebrokenweak-willed-slip-of-a-boy_.

It isn’t just the bruising. His ribs jut out a bit too prominently. His hair is _off_ (no time to properly gel it the past few days- _you’ll fix it, you’ll fix it, it’s_ fine). He runs a hand over it all the same. As he moves, the mottled skin stretches green and purple over the bones. It hurts _. (_ It’s taken him this long to notice.)

His hand drops. _You should take something for this - you should_ drink _something for this - you should grab your blaster and -_ No. _I just need to sleep-_

The faint whir of the bedroom doors opening scatters the thoughts. _There’s only one person on this ship that would-_ Hux barely has time to throw on his robe before Ren steps in, doors irising shut behind him.

“Supreme Leader.” Hux ties the robe and clasps his hands behind his back as Ren crosses the room to stand toe to toe with him, by the mirror. “How may I be of service?” Hux’s smile should be pure vitriol. Exhaustion, however, dilutes it.

“Let me see you,” says Ren, apropos of everything and nothing.

“I can’t very well stop you, can I?”

“No.” Ren looks Hux up and down, gaze lingering on the burgundy blotches visible above the robe’s collar. “I want you to let me.”

Hux bites back his instinctive response of _too-fucking-bad_ , keeps calm. “Oh, so _now_ it matters? To what do we owe this change of heart?” The vitriol comes through alright this time.

“Reflection,” says Ren, and a controlled tremor runs under his voice. “On you, on me. I realized after, on Crait, the nature of our circumstances, and you- you need to be whole. If any of this is going to work, I need to fix you.”

“Fix me?” Hux all but spits. “Like a misprogrammed droid?”

“No!” Ren’s eyes are bright, shimmering with liquid. “Gods, no. No. Not like that. I just- I- _Let me see you._ Please. I need to see the extent of the damage.”

“Why?” _Don’t push him, just let him, you need to stay_ alive-

“Because you’re hurt- “ Ren swallows. Hux notices his lips are cracked and peeling. “-and you- you _matter.”_

 _‘You’re hurt.’_ Ren says it as if he weren’t the perpetrator, like some kind of savior.

But: _youmatteryoumatteryoumatter_. Hux knows this. He knows perfectly well how necessary a tool he is (more necessary than Ren would be to himself). He doesn’t need Ren to tell him so. He doesn’t, and yet- Ren’s hair is hanging in his face. And yet-

Oh, _hell._ Hux unslips the loose knot in the robe’s belt. His hands hang at his sides, and his fingers scrabble at the hangnails on his thumbs.

Ren bites his lip, raise his eyes from the floor to Hux. “May I?” He lifts a hand - ungloved - toward Hux’s collar, adds almost bashfully,“My hands are clean.”

 _“_ That’s certainly a tremendous comfort.” Hux takes the slightest step backward.

Ren more than compensates with a step of his own, bringing them chest to chest. “Let me,” he whispers. Hux feels no Force-touch. _This is a survival tactic._

 _“_ Very well then.” Hux tenses, pulse thudding in his ears. “Do it.”

Ren folds the robe’s collar further down, runs ghost-light fingers over the angry handprints on Hux’s throat. “I did this,” he murmurs, repeats it again and again, as if marvelling. “I did this.”

Ren’s hand slips under the fabric, runs down Hux’s collarbone and his chest to examine his damaged side. Ren’s fingers are cold against the burning bruises; the light touch feels strangely like snow, when the first few flakes brush your face and dissolve.

“I did this,” Ren says again, “I did this,” sounding so lost and bewildered that Hux can’t collapse into memory, can’t pretend that this is a caress and all is well. Still, Ren can probably feel his heart drumming madly against his ribcage.

“I did-” Ren starts, and though Hux can hardly trust his own voice, he interrupts him.

“Have you stopped to consider the fact that you _shouldn’t have_?” ( _For God’s sake, idiot, don’t scold him like a child. He can crush you with a flick of his wrist.)_

Ren has reached Hux’s waist; he withdraws his hand. “I’ve been considering it most of the day,” he says.

“Decent of you.”

Ren’s lip quirks upward feebly, briefly. “Let me fix it. Please. That much I can do.”

“Do to… apologize?” Hux scoffs. He can’t fix this with a few Force tricks; there’s more damaged than just Hux’s skin. “It’ll take more than that.” More than he has to offer.

“I know.” Ren’s eyes flicker downward. “But you’ll sleep better if you aren’t in pain. I need you in optimal condition.”

 _Like a droid_ , Hux resists the urge to repeat.

“I’m not letting you use the Force on me,” he says, tensing. _Not after earlier today._

“It wouldn’t be using the Force _on_ you, more like… guiding the Force _in_ you to achieve a mutually beneficial result.” Ren laughs, a low and ephemeral thing like a cannon blast. “That isn’t what you meant, but…”

“You thought you’d appeal to my weakness for technicality.” Hux stretches his lips into something like a grimace. Black specks dance before his eyes. “No, thank you,” he says, blinking.

“You don’t trust me.”

“How can I?”

Ren purses his lips. “Because I need you, as I’ve said, and you know it. I may not have your penchant for strategy, but I can see far enough past my own nose to know this can’t be done without you. I want to fix this. I want to _start_ fixing this.”

 _He can’t he can’t he can’t._ There’s nothing that will mend this; there’s nothing Ren can do. But his hands were gentle earlier, and he hasn’t killed Hux yet. If he meant to, he surely wouldn’t be waiting for permission. (And then there’s _I need you_.)

Hux’s bruises are throbbing, and he’s unsure how long he can keep arguing with Ren before he collapses on his feet out of sheer exhaustion. He needs to sleep well.

Hux sighs, nods, and slips out of the robe in silence, tossing it onto the bed behind him. “Should we sit down for this?”

“Probably.” Ren steps forward, almost hesitantly.

Hux gestures to the bed with a shrug, head ringing with the klaxon of mental alarms. _He’s dangerous, you shouldn’t-_ Whatever. They sit on the edge of the bed, Hux with his legs folded under him, Ren with his boots on the floor.

“Are you sure?”

Hux nods.

Ren lifts a hand to loosely cup Hux’s throat. _He probably doesn’t need to touch you to do this._ But he is, and with the touch a warmth and a coolness spreads over Hux’s skin, beneath it. It tingles a bit, like vaseline rub when he was a child, when he wasn’t quite sick enough to waste bacta.

Ren lifts his hand. “Better?”

“Somewhat.”

Ren almost smiles, then moves his hand to Hux’s side. As Ren moves his hand down the discolored ribs, Hux realizes his own pulse is stable. Must be an effect of the Force. The thought unnerves some faraway part of him, the logical Hux, the commander of legions and the destroyer of worlds. But right now Ren’s fingers are soft, and the relief is instantaneous.

Ren finishes - almost - too quickly, then stands. He was blocking Hux’s view of the mirror, but no longer. Hux’s reflection shows inviolate skin, no trace of any abrasion. (It didn’t fix the visible ribs or the fatigue around his eyes, but still.)

Ren is looking at him expectantly. “Not so bad, was it?”

“Not really.” Hux makes a point not to thank him. Ren shouldn’t expect gratitude for cleaning up his own messes, for--childlike--fixing his own broken toys.

Ren tilts his head, ever so slightly, to one side. “Good night then.”

“Good night.”

The black specks swirl before Hux’s eyes, multiply, tunnel his vision. As soon as the doors slide shut behind Ren, he collapses into a dead sleep.

* * *

By 0600 Hux is on the bridge, pacing in front of the viewport and waiting for his tea to cool. Bolander, the lead analyst on duty, reports no further information on the Resistance ship’s location.

“Nothing of value from Documents and Media?” Hux is certain of the answer, but it’s worth confirming.

“Nothing yet, General.” Bolander shakes her head. “Unfortunately.”

Hux thanks her and dismisses her to her post. This should be over already; the war should have ended yesterday.

At 0700, he meets with the captains in the _Finalizer_ ’s main officers’ conference room. Glancing around the table, Phasma’s absence stings. Hux draws his mind back from the edge of that particular void and invites Peavey to begin his brief.

His gaze still wanders around the room, to the faces of the officers, to the furnishings. The room is holo-enabled, with an appropriately secure connection that’s going unused at present.

 _We’ll have to record the official announcement in here_ , Hux realizes halfway through Peavey’s report on the _Finalizer_ ’s operational status.

“Our signals collection equipment took some damage from the _Supremacy_ ’s debris, but repairs are scheduled to begin later this cycle. Full capacity should be restored by or before 0600 tomorrow.”

“Good,” says Hux, detached. “Excellent.”

There hasn’t been a statement regarding Snoke’s demise and Ren’s new position. Ren’s title was no secret yesterday, but in the mad dash toward Crait and the chaotic aftermath of taking a headcount, establishing formation, and reviewing the mission, no official version of events was released. Rumors won’t suffice to explain a _de facto_ coup.

Hux adds the item to his mental task list, but it’s really the only priority for today, besides watching and waiting for intelligence on Resistance maneuvers.  _Ren_. He’ll need to consult Ren about it.

The meeting ends precisely at 0800, and Hux leaves the conference room without exchanging further pleasantries. He’s already turning phrases and paragraphs over in his mind, fusing them together, rending them asunder again, honing them to sharp perfection.

 _Ren may not want you putting words in his mouth._ Oh, please. Ren needs all the help he can get.

Hux makes his way back to the bridge. Unsurprisingly, the Supreme Leader hasn’t yet appeared.

At 1100, Hux is examining a mangled collection dish in the Signals unit, when he gets a comm from the bridge.

“The rest of the equipment should be repairable,” Opan, his chief intelligence officer, is saying, “but this particular disk may require--”

“General.” A more junior analyst turns from his screen, pressing his earpiece. “The Supreme Leader requests your presence on the bridge.”

“We’ll finish this later,” Hux assures Opan, then heads for the bridge.

Ren is waiting for him at the viewport, against a backdrop of constellations. (Which is a stupid thing to notice.)

“How’s your neck?” says Ren.

“Happily possessed of an unrestricted airway.”

Hux gives him a mirthless smile, looks out through the transparisteel. The two of them are reflected on its surface, and Ren’s mouth contorts ambiguously, as if he doesn’t know whether to laugh or shout the whole Star Destroyer out of the sky in wrath.

Hux allows a beat, and then: “We need to discuss public diplomacy.”

“I’m guessing that means you have an inaugural speech prepared for me.”

“More or less.” Hux turns back toward Ren with calculated ease. “We probably need to review a few details before I finalize a draft.”

“Such as?”

Hux starts walking, and Ren follows suit. “We aren’t going to use your bullshit about the girl killing Snoke, obviously,” he says, voice low. “That’s awful for morale, and outrageous besides. We’ll say he sustained fatal injuries in the destruction of the _Supremacy,_ leaving you in command.”

“I prefer the version with the girl.” Ren stops in place; Hux turns toward him. _What the_ hell. “The whole Order saw Skywalker’s...abilities yesterday; they’re already afraid of what the Light can do. Why not amplify that fear, use it as a tool? That kind of collective terror - it doesn’t have to be a paralytic. It’s a formidable weapon if tempered properly.”

“All things according to the Supreme Leader’s preference, of course,” Hux swallows a sharper response. “However,” he says, “if I may offer a counterpoint?”

“Please.” Ren gestures permissively, keeps walking.

“The angle of this message needs to be strength, camaraderie. You can’t be the bearer of threats, not in your first public address. You need to be _on their side_ , not proclaiming how weak we are and what will happen to them if they fail.” Hux’s voice drops softer, colder.

“And wouldn’t that inevitably raise the question -- in some minds, anyway, not all, but still too many -- of why and how Kylo Ren could have possibly let the murderer get through him to his master? You’ll agree that that much needs to stay...highly classified.”

“Between you and me,” Ren corrects. That ridiculous thing in Hux’s chest clenches at the intimacy of the phrase.

“But I suppose I agree,” continues the Supreme Leader. “We need to promote unity above all else. And I’m sure many of them lost colleagues, friends stationed on the _Supremacy_ \- by accident, in the wreckage. If I can share _that particular_ grief…”

Hux nods. “Exactly. You’ll be that much closer to having their loyalty.”

They pass a console wrapped in yellow tape reading **FOR REPLACEMENT | DO NOT TAMPER | FOR REPLACEMENT | DO NOT TAMPER**. Blackened lightsaber gashes gape beneath the strips.

“I suppose I already have their fear,” Ren says, drily.

“I suppose,” Hux agrees, releasing a breath and redirecting the subject. “I’ll have the script finished by the end of this cycle.”

Ren pauses in his step again. “Thank you.”

Hux ignores him. “I take it I’m dismissed?”

“Yes, General.”

Hux turns back toward the viewport, leaving Ren to reckon with the ruined panel.

* * *

At 1600, after a few hours of tapping on and off at his datapad between briefings from a workstation on the bridge, Hux sends the draft to Ren in an encrypted file.

At 1900, over a largely flavorless nutrient bar and some weak and disappointing tea (he apparently used the last of his Tarine this morning, and is now officially _making do_ ), he checks his inbox. No reply from Ren. Not even a _read_ receipt. _Wonderful. Just - truly. terrific._ And completely expected.

The address needs to be reviewed before the end of this cycle, for recording and broadcast tomorrow at the latest. Every day without an official story is another day for rumors to germinate, blossom, putrefy, and spread. Bad news for a peaceful transfer of power.

Hux rises from the workstation and informs Bolander he has a meeting with the Supreme Leader. Her shift will end at 1930; Hux doubts he’ll return before she goes off duty.

Heading down the corridors toward Ren’s chambers, Hux opens his datapad’s biotracker application to ensure Ren is actually there. (He is.)

Hux runs opening lines through his head, grasping for appropriate verbiage. _“Supreme Leader, did you receive my message?” “Ren, you jackass, this is absolutely urgent.” “Supreme Leader Ren, was there a glitch in the file I sent you this afternoon?”_ He finds himself outside Ren’s door, presses the mounted comm.

“Supreme Leader, this is Hux, following up on the draft I sent you at 1600.” He releases the comm, and waits.

“Supreme Leader, this is Hux. It’s urgent.” Radio silence.

“Supreme Lead--”

He hears something crashing, something shattering; hears Ren’s voice, sharp, but too low to make out words. _Walk away, Hux. Walk away, save it, it’s not worth it._

But something cold curls up in his stomach, burrows deep. One more try.

“Supreme-” _Fuck it_. “Ren. Are you alright?”

Ren’s voice comes through a bit breathy, quivering, as if he’s too close to the microphone. “Come in, Hux.”

The doors slide open, and Hux smells the lightsaber before he sees it, the thunderstorm scent of it effusing out into the corridor, filling the room as Hux steps in. Ren stands in the middle of the floor. His blade flickers for a moment, casting the room scarlet, before he retracts it. Smoke issues from a new rent in the wall in front of him. The doors shut behind Hux.

Hux suppresses a sigh. “What the hell is it?”

Then he notices Ren’s chest is heaving, hands are shaking, face is bloodless, eyes are red-rimmed. _Like after a session with Snoke._ The curled-up, cold thing in Hux’s stomach - like the ice dragon at the heart of a black hole - rears its head.

Ren drops the lightsaber onto the night table beside him, then sinks, nerveless, onto the edge of the bed. “Ghosts,” he says, head bowed. He runs his hands through his hair, elbows resting on his knees.

“Ghosts,” Hux echoes, stepping gingerly over to the bedside to stand above Ren. “I don’t see any ghosts.”

“Of course you don’t. Doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”

 _Lovely._ The Force has decided to torture him, as it’s sometimes known to.

Hux bites his lip. “Are they here _now_?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Ren looks up, shakes his head. “They’ll be back.”

Hux fights the base urge to settle onto the bed and comb his fingers through Ren’s hair.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he manages, coldly. “Are you disposed to discuss the address I’ve prepared?”

Ren sniffs and clears his throat. He swings his legs onto the bed and settles against the flat pillows, closing his eyes. “You deliver it.”

“No. It’s _your_ speech, I wrote it in your voice, _for_ you. I can’t deliver it.” Hux clasps his hands behind his back. He couldn’t drum up the kind of emotion for Snoke the script requires. Ren would at least be able to fake it. “It’s very specifically tailored, to the Supreme Leader, to Snoke’s heir..”

“You’re better at this sort of thing,” Ren murmurs. “You give it,”

“Supreme Leader, I-” Hux begins.

“That’s an order, General Hux,” says Ren, without opening his eyes.

Hux briefly purses his lips. “Supreme Leader. Wouldn’t you at least like to review it before it’s broadcast?”

“I trust your judgment.”

Hux isn’t flattered. He watches how Ren’s fingers tremble at his sides. “This is a bad time, clearly,” he says. “My apologies. I’ll come back first thing next cycle when you’re better composed.” The file has a timed encryption; he’ll have to resend that, too. He makes to turn toward the door.

“No,” Ren says, voice watery, eyes open now, “you can stay. Please stay.”

Hux freezes. _How- what- no, this is_ wrong _-_ “What for?”

“Talk to me. Insult me, if you want. Just- distract me.”

“I have to be on the bridge, Supreme Leader. I can’t sit in here and prattle at you.” Hux pinches the bridge of his nose, but something aches in his chest.

“Fine then,” says Ren, and inches into a sitting position. “I’ll prattle at you.”

“No.”

“Ask me something.”

Hux clenches and unclenches his hands at his sides. This can be a game for two. “Why don’t you want to deliver this speech?” he says, petulantly.

Ren smirks. “Because I’m bad at speeches.” Hux raises his eyebrows.

“And besides,” Ren continues, “Snoke operated from the shadows; it worked reasonably well for him. That’s why he had you.” He lingers on _you_ for just longer than necessary. “I can think of less than three occasions on which he appeared in public.”

“And you don’t think assuming the throne would merit a public appearance?”

“It’s unnecessary.” Ren cracks his knuckles in a sort of stretch. “There’s ample precedent for the Supreme Leader to be a bit… faceless.”

“Your _face_ , Ren-” says Hux, pacing to the end of the bed.

Ren smiles. “Ren,” he murmurs. “That’s the second time.”

Oh.

“Apologies, Supreme Leader.” Heat creeps across Hux’s face.

“No, it’s fine,” says Ren, still smiling, looking satisfied. “Keep going.”

Hux clears his throat, paces back to his former position. “Your _face_ , as I was saying, is exactly what they need to see, now that the mask is gone.”

“They’ve seen my face now. Some of them. That’s enough.”

“That’s terrible politics,” Hux says. “You need their trust, their loyalty--they need to _see_ you. They need to hear from you directly. Snoke had their implicit trust; you have to earn it.”

“I have you.”

Hux tries not to savor the words. “I’m not enough,” he insists.

“That’s what you’re for.” Ren shrugs. “You’re the writer; you’re the orator. I need to stay in the shadows. It’s unnecessary for me to give your speech,” he summarizes. “Next question.”

Hux would protest, if his head weren’t still reeling from _youyouyou_ . Biting back his natural inquiry -- _what the hell kind of mood are you in--_ he purses his lips and lets his gaze roam the room.

 _“What exactly have you been doing all day?”_ is on the tip of his tongue, but he knows he’s likely to get some cryptic babble about locating the Resistance by “searching my feelings.” He’s not ready for that.

His gaze wanders to the other side of the room, to the alcove in the durasteel wall where Ren has apparently moved his shrine.

“Speaking of masks,” says Hux, and rounds the bed to stand beside the urn holding the shriveled, ash-gray husk of Vader’s helmet. “If you’re done with your own, why do you still have this?”

Ren is silent for several seconds, lips quivering.

“It’s an heirloom,” he says at last, stiffening. “It’s something to live up to.”

“To live up to?” Hux echoes. “You’ve surpassed him. He was nothing but Palpatine’s bloodhound.” Hux’s fingers absently stray toward the mask. “He--”

“Hux, no, don’t touch it! It’s--” Ren’s eyes flash with something like fear; he makes to put his feet back on the floor.

Hux’s hand falls on the gray metal. He runs his fingers over the ripples where it’s half-melted, twisted. It’s cold, and scored with tiny fissures. Nothing happens.

“It’s what?” Hux tilts his head to one side, withdraws his hand, and crosses the room.

“Strong with Force memories,” Ren murmurs. “I always forget you can’t-”

“Can’t...?” _Sense it? Use it like he can? Jockey for his position as the most powerful being in the galaxy?_

“Nothing.” Ren shakes his head, repositioning himself. “What were you saying about Vader?”

Hux is back by the bedside. He clears his throat. “Just that he never grew out of his master’s shadow, like you have.”

“He merely had different priorities.”

“He still never ruled the galaxy.” Hux can’t quite filter the bitterness out of his voice. He thinks of Snoke’s empty throne and the wreck of the _Supremacy_ , floating like a ghost town in the vacuum of space.

“You can sit, if you want.”

 _The throne._ Hux blinks. Ren nods to the foot of the bed, across from him.

“I’d rather not.”

“Fine,” says Ren, brushing his hair out of his face. “You can if you want to, that’s all. It’s easier to talk that way.”

Hux sighs, faintly. He might as well get off his feet. He kicks off his boots and slips out of his greatcoat, laying it beside him on the bed. He perches at the foot of the bed, pulls his knees toward his chest. They’re silent for a moment. Hux shrugs. Ren smiles.

“I don’t rule the galaxy,” he says.

“Not yet,” Hux replies, tone clipped. He twists the rough coverlet between his fingertips.

Ren coughs out a laugh. “I don’t even have a plan.”

“I’ve noticed,” says Hux, all but primly.

“I’m open to suggestions.” Ren leans back against the pillows, folds his arms across his chest, then says, bizarrely, “Tell me about your empire.”

“I don’t have an empire, Ren.” Hux clenches his jaw, twists the blanket tighter around his finger, cutting off the circulation. “ _You_ have an empire.”

“What’s the difference?” Ren says it as a challenge, but his eyes are soft. There’s something contagious, conspiratorial, in his look.

Hux shakes his head, scoffs. “You’re just telling me what I want to hear.”

“Maybe.” Ren’s lip twitches. “Still. Tell me about your empire. I know you’ve dreamed of it, made plans. I can see the outlines on the surface of your mind. It’s - absurdly intricate.”

“You don’t want to hear all that,” Hux demurs, involuntarily running the blueprints through his mind: palaces, monuments, organizational charts.“It would put you right to sleep.”

“Good.” Ren blinks heavily.

Hux watches him for a moment. “You _haven’t_ slept, have you?”

“Not exactly.”

Hux pops his lips. “Ghosts?”

“More or less.”

Hux looks up and down Ren’s relaxed form, the deceptively solid shape of him. The fine line of his scar is partially visible beneath his hair. Damn him, his eyes are still red-rimmed. _(Stay.)_

Hux sighs, and the thoughts come screaming.

 _This is it: the worst idea you’ve ever had. You can’t- He’s dangerous. He’ll destroy you on a whim, kick you aside like so much debris._ Enough. _No, he won’t. He needs me._

Hux needs to remain necessary, remain trustworthy. He extracts his datapad from the folds of his greatcoat next to him, and inches slightly left so that Ren can stretch out.

_Is this what you’re going to do now? March for him, dance at the end of his string? He may be docile now, but he’s a groundquake, a volcano, a hurricane. You can’t trust-_

Hux knows. He’s always known, known long before Ren became ruler of the known universe. But this- this is… _politically advantageous_ . Assure him of your loyalty - your _personal_ loyalty.

That’s all this is. A rational choice. Politics in action.

Hux rolls his eyes, mostly for effect. “You should get some sleep,” he says, more gently than he means to. He unlocks the datapad and opens a report.

“Hux-” Ren’s voice sounds close to breaking. (It’s nothing unusual, but still.)

Hux glances up from the screen. “I’m little use against ghosts, but-”

“Thank you.”

Hux nods and returns to his reading. He flicks through a dozen or so intel reports before he looks up again. Ren’s eyes are shut, chest rising and falling slowly. There’s something wistful in Hux’s smile.

He gingerly swings his legs over the side of the bed, is careful not to disturb Ren as he slips his boots back on. He stands, lifts his greatcoat, and feels his knife in the sleeve as he puts it on.

The sheath is cold and solid, and the blade inside is acutely _available._ And here is Ren - dark hair tangled around his bare and lovely throat. It would be so _easy._

But it wouldn’t. ( _‘I have you.’ ‘You matter.’)_

Hux circles the bed and bends over Ren. Answering some base instinct, he brushes Ren’s hair away from his face, then presses his lips to Ren’s forehead.

 _Pathetic. Look at you-_ Stop. Enough. _I need him._

Ren doesn’t stir. Hux lifts his datapad, dims the lights, and opens the door. He steps out into the corridor. It no longer smells of storms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Kylux fic/first SW fic -- after months of lurking, TLJ got me feeling some kinda way. I may have fucked this up.
> 
> Note on the title: It blends lines from Act I of Twelfth Night ('If music be the food of love, play on..') and T.S. Eliot's 'Portrait of a Lady, Part III.'
> 
> (come say hey on tumblr [here](https://imperial-huxness.tumblr.com))


	2. ii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to everyone who commented or left kudos on Chapter 1! This chapter definitely wouldn't exist without your loveliness and warm welcome to a new Kylux writer :)

_"I know the voices dying with a dying fall  
_ _Beneath the music from a farther room.  
_ _And I have known the eyes already, known them all--  
_ _The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,  
_ _And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,  
_ _When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,  
_ _Then how should I begin  
_ _To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?"_

(T.S. Eliot, 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock')

* * *

 That weak, greenish tea was a poor substitute for Hux’s _tarine_ , so the next morning he resorts to caf. If he’s going to drink something that tastes like licking out the _Finalizer_ ’s ventilation system, it might as well alleviate the exhaustion. (For the exhaustion has returned.)

After he returned to his chambers last night, it didn’t take terribly long to revise Ren’s speech for his own delivery--switching a few pronouns, excising an expression of grief here and an equally heartfelt leaderly assurance there. His own version is shorter, cleaner, just the facts, pure (dis)information.

It didn’t take much to memorize it either, but afterward his brain- wouldn’t stop. _One night of sleeping like a corpse, then back to our regularly scheduled insomnia._ Naturally.

So Hux stalks down to the officers’ conference room on the lower deck, choking down this gods-awful caf and reminding himself that Ren had nothing to do with last night’s wakefulness. _If you didn’t want to think about him, it probably wasn’t advisable to sit on his bed and caress his sleeping form, was it, you romantic._ Whatever.

The Supreme Leader (politically speaking) is but one of _many_ indeterminate variables for which Hux failed to solve last night. This address, however - this address may bring him one step closer.

His footsteps click, echo, and multiply in the empty corridors. The third-cycle rotation is confined to the Collections Unit and the bridge, leaving the rest of the ship in a sort of liminal space until the bustle of shift change at 0600.

Hux is recording at 0430, so the message will be available for the new cycle’s first shift. The statement is already conspicuously late--no use letting the rumors fester for even a fraction of the next day.

Ren will wake up to it, _and you’d better hope he likes it._

Hux reaches the conference room and punches his access code into the pad by the entrance. The doors iris open in a silver blur, and Hux steps in.

“Good morning, General.” There’s Peavey, laughably punctual, with a Media Affairs officer and two techs around the table beside him. Between the techs hovers a small holocam, red and green status lights flickering in the abyss of its lens.

“Good morning, Officer.” Hux smiles thinly and rounds the table to stand opposite Peavey and the media team, sets down his half-empty mug. “I trust all is in order to push out the message by 0600?” 

“Per your instructions last night, sir.” Peavey briefly inclines his head. “A production team is standing by for editing and distribution. It should be waiting for the first rotation as soon as they report.” 

“Excellent.” Hux clasps his hands behind his back. This, at least, should go smoothly.

“We’re ready to record on your command, General,” says the media officer, glancing up from her datapad and tucking her stylus into her bun.

Hux unfolds his hands to scoot the caf mug out of the holocam’s range of view, then glances behind him. The wall is a mass of blank screens, latticed by the crisp silver lines of the secure room’s reinforced walls. 

“There won’t be any issue with such a dark backdrop?” His uniform will blend right into the darkened fiberglass, leaving his face to talk out of a void. Holos of disembodied heads are objectively bad news, given recent developments. (He isn’t sure whether it’s his pride or his lower lip that still stings if he thinks about it.) 

“No, sir,” replies the officer, straightening herself, “this particular cam model will have no trouble distinguishing you.”

“Very well, then.” And Hux’s hands are behind his back again, fingers drumming lightly against the back of the glove. _Stop fidgeting._ He clasps tighter. “On my nod.” 

“Yes, General.” 

The techs are poised; the lights in the lens blink fitfully. Red, green, green, red out, green on, red, pulsing red, red, red. It looks--for a second--like a grenade, and Hux fights the urge to crawl under the table and cover his head. Stupid. _What are you afraid of?_

Hux puts out of his mind the all-too-tactile memory of the Force, noose-like, at his throat, and with it the antithetical image of Ren sprawled on the bed, smiling: “ _I trust your judgment.”_ It’s both thoughts that scare him. _So what._

Hux nods. The lights are all green.

“Soldiers, citizens, and supporters of the First Order: I regret the occasion of this address.

“As many of you are aware, our illustrious flagship the _Supremacy_ was destroyed two standard cycles ago in an irrational act of wanton destruction befitting the crippled Resistance. A suicide attacker piloted a ship at lightspeed through the hull of our vessel, breaking it asunder. It is with deepest sorrow-”

Hux conjures a frown, and doesn't think of the chiaroscuro of bruises that once covered Ren's back, of his shaking hands, of ' _I'm not hungry, Hux. I need to meditate._ ' Or especially of Hux’s own bleeding nose and lips. Hux pushes it all to the back of his mind, bolts it down with durasteel magnets. He must; it would ruin the performance.

“-that I inform you that Supreme Leader Snoke-" (Hux can manage no further honorifics.) “-did not survive the attack. However, despite the grief we all share, Lord Kylo Ren has taken up his fallen master's mantle. I assure you that he will remain faithful to Snoke's mission, and lead us with steady hands to the triumph that is already within reach. In his day, the First Order will know victory, and the galaxy will know peace.

(Hux isn’t used to lying in public. On Starkiller - a week ago - in another life - he had believed his every word.)

“Await your orders, and stand ready to aid him. Long live the Supreme Leader."

Hux lifts a hand, and the techs rush to tinker with the holocam. Within seconds the pinpricks of red blink out of the lens once more. 

“Brief but inspired, sir,” says Peavey, untruthfully, as Hux retrieves his mug and circles the table. Hux doesn’t quite roll his eyes.

“That’s irrelevant, Officer,” he says. “The object is utility, not beauty.” (And neither will save him if the statement doesn’t suit Ren’s ear.) “See that it’s pushed out on time.” He gracelessly swallows some more caf, trying not to taste it.

“As you say, General.” Peavey dips his head, and Hux leaves the room, doors hissing shut behind him.

It isn’t even 0500. If he hadn’t drunk all this caf, he could go back to his rooms and attempt an hour of sleep. As it is, he heads up to the bridge to watch the galaxy wheel by, to finish poisoning his bloodstream with this stimulant, and above all to _not think._

* * *

“We’ve picked up nothing since collection capabilities were restored, General--no comms, no signatures, dead air.” Opan clutches his hat in front of him, and Hux isn’t sure if it’s a gesture of deference or an assertion of equality. The intel chief has come up--unbidden--to the bridge to brief Hux personally, which was a bad sign even before he opened his mouth.

 _This is to be expected,_ Hux assures himself. _You can’t find a ship like that in a day._  

“Understood, Officer,” he says. “That freighter is so small and decrepit I doubt we’ll pick up much telemetry on it unless we’re in close range.” Opan’s fingernails are deep into the felt of the hat; his knuckles are white. “Continue to monitor communications from the Old Republic hubs, as well as the Outer Rim. They must have allies somewhere.”

“Yes, General.”

Hux waves him off. “Dismissed.”

Opan puts the hat back on as he leaves the bridge, and Hux rubs his temples. This shouldn’t be so complicated: finding one rusty smuggling vessel and a handful of high-minded lunatics, without so much as a single bunker of safe haven in the whole damn galaxy.

Hux drums his fingers against the console. One tiny band of idealists-- but the Empire was toppled by little more. A terrorist cell broadcasting anthems about liberty--with the girl who can apparently bring down mountains on board.

This would be so much easier if Ren were talking with her again--but some ugly, petty, jealous thing stings Hux’s chest at the thought. _No._ It would be critical intelligence. Neutralize the metaphysical battlefield, and victory isn’t a probability but a statistical fact.

 _‘The maelstrom dragging us all down.’_ Fuck Ren and his dramatics. Leave it to the Force to ruin Hux’s politics.

“General?”

Hux turns. “Officer Bolander.”

“The Supreme Leader requires you in Holosuite One, sir.”

Ren’s up early. Hux purses his lips as his pulse quickens. _Coward._

But not quite. He can all but feel Ren’s fingers on his neck, on his side; can feel Ren’s skin against his lips. _‘I have you.’_ (How close is that to _‘I want you’_?)

 _I’m not afraid._ (Not yet _._ ) This is far more insidious.

Hux clears his throat, hopes the heat in his face is invisible in the dim lighting. “Thank you,” he says. “Excellent. I’ll report at once.”

* * *

 Ren isn’t in the holosuite; he’s waiting by the entrance, draped against a power panel with his arms crossed. He takes his foot off the wall and stands up straighter as Hux approaches.

“Supreme Leader.” Hux stops in front of him, briefly dips his head. “How did you sleep?” Maybe that’ll distract him--however momentarily--from any planned commentary on the statement. 

“Well.” Ren pauses just long enough for Hux’s treacherous brain to imagine stroking the hair out of his face. “Thank you.”

Hux hears _thanks_ to _you_ , and opts to ignore it. Instead he nods toward the imperious arch of the doorway. “You could have used your codes and gone on in.” 

“I wanted to wait.” Ren shrugs and turns toward the keypad, which is blinking yellow. The doors slide open into darkness so deep and complete that Hux is surprised it isn’t spilling out to flood the corridor and drown them both.

Ren takes a step backward, pivots toward the panel that’s been serving as his backrest. “Will this bring the lights up?”

“I think-” starts Hux, but with the first dial Ren turns, a faint, white glow appears close to the doors, then slightly expands.

“Shall we?” Ren tilts his head to one side and enters, disappearing into the receding shadows. Hux follows.

The lighting in the auditorium (a sort of miniature replica of the cavernous chamber on Starkiller) flickers on quickly, row by glaring row until the room all but shines. The barely-used fluorescents refract off the obsidian floor and convex durasteel walls. It’s like being on an ice world with four suns.

Hux blinks, adjusting, and surveys the room. It’s empty but for themselves and a single object: the projector in the center of the floor, sitting like a strange black monument or broken chains.

Ren steps ahead of Hux, gaze roaming toward the star-white ceiling, probing the corners of the room. He swallows.

"It's smaller," he says, trying to whisper, but his voice still resonates in the vaulted room. "I’ll…” He trails off, eyes intent, but still flitting. “I’ll have to fix the lights before I set up in here.” His voice is oddly soft, as if marveling.

 _Of course._ Every Supreme Leader needs an audience chamber- a throne room. Hux should have thought of this first. _Damn it._ He moves forward to stand beside Ren, but doesn’t look at him.

"I'd be happy to procure an immense red curtain if it would soften the aesthetic."

Ren snorts at that, and Hux half-turns in his direction. "General, that would be a bit nostalgic for my taste."

 _Wouldn't it just_ . Hux is surprised even the standard-issue projector--Snoke's former conduit--isn't yet a smouldering wreck. 

"Then what is it that you have in mind, Supreme Leader?"

"Some sort of throne, obviously. And guards." _Helpful_. Hux looks at the ceiling.

"Praetorian?"

"Decidedly not." Ren's lip twitches upward. "Stormtroopers will suffice until I can establish some sort of elite unit."

Hux nods. "And this," he says, gesturing to the whole imagined setup, "should all be quite temporary. We- _you--_ " Hux corrects himself instantly, but the mistake is made. Ren, however, makes no sign. "-shouldn't invest as much in this ship when a planetside base is likely forthcoming."

"Naturally, General." Ren nods, still peering around the room, distracted.  
  
_General_. It's his title, it's appropriate, it sets an all too necessary boundary. It shouldn't feel like an insult. After last night, however, and the searing ache of ' _Please stay_ ,' the formality stings.

 _He's your superior now, you idiot._ Correct. _Get it together._ Rank and file. _You're his._ No. Revise. _His toy soldier_. Better.

Hux clenches his jaw, watches as Ren starts pacing. He won’t last ruling from a chair like Snoke, ordering executions and waiting for his Force-webs around the galaxy to quiver. Of course, Hux wouldn’t either (he’d spend his days in an Emperor’s war room), but Ren’s an even poorer match. He’s an operational commander. His lightsaber won’t get much use in here.

Ren walks the length of the room, footsteps resonant, casting a long and eldritch shadow against the gleams of light on the floor. He gives the projector a wide perimeter coming and going, then returns to stand directly in front of Hux. 

“It’ll do,” he says simply, with an air of finality.

“...Good,” Hux replies, grappling with the question in his tone. Ren called him from the bridge for _this_ ? “I’ll arrange for a unit of Troopers to start rotations in here, and attempt to locate an adequate- _chair_.” It wouldn’t be a true throne.

A beat, and no word of dismissal. Ren nods once, sharply, but says nothing. “How else may I be of service, Supreme Leader?”

Ren’s mouth twitches enigmatically. “A word about your statement this morning.”

“Of course.” Hux insists on meeting his eyes.

“Why did the audience require your assurance?” Ren’s voice is low, clear, and unnervingly steady. The light catches in his hair.

“What?” _That’s poor form._ Hux clears his throat. “I mean, please contextualize your inquiry, Supreme Leader.” It’s a bit ostentatious, but it gets the point across - gets Hux’s dilemma across. Or it should. Ren, however, breezes right past the sarcasm.

“ _‘I assure you_ ,’” he says. “You went out of your way to use that phrase. Now I’m asking why _they_ would need assurance about _me_ , their Supreme Leader and High Commander, from _you_?” 

Gods, it had to be something, didn’t it? Hux bites back a barrage of responses:

 _“I don’t know, Ren, because I’m apparently your mouthpiece to them, and I had better sound supportive?” “I don’t know, Ren, because everything you’ve taken was built on my back and theirs?” “I don’t know, Ren, because I was trying to assure_ myself _?”_

What Hux says is: “As your spokesperson and a relatively public figure within the Order, I felt my endorsement would be advantageous.”

Ren is quiet for a moment, and runs a hand through his hair--both of which actions are absurdly unfair.

“I apologize if I overstepped--” Hux starts, but freezes when Ren’s hand moves up, his own fingers straying unconsciously toward his collar. _This is it, this is how it ends-_ you _apologize to_ him, _and you still end up dea--_

“No,” says Ren, and doesn’t touch him, “keep going. You were starting to sound almost modest.” 

Hux searches his face for the tug at the lip, the humorous glint in the dark eyes (so different from the red-rimmed shimmer). Nothing. _Excellent. Well done. Now you’re really fucked._

 _“_ I would hope,” he says, like walking on nails, “that one presumptuous semantic choice would not negate your… _historic understanding_ of my sense of self-worth.”

 _Shit._ Before Ren can remark on that, can fall too far back into memories, into half-remembered conversations over contraband liqueurs, swapping Tragic Backstories between breathless kisses, with the lights at ten percent - before Ren can reply, Hux adds, “Or negate the rest of my statement’s highly complimentary content.”

“Why not?” Ren takes a step forward; with his head angled downward his nose nearly brushes Hux’s. “You didn’t mean a word of it.” This. Now _this_ is a test.

“It doesn’t matter if I meant it, Supreme Leader. It’s good rhetoric. What else would you have had me say?” _Could have had me say, if you’d been less pitiful last night, and in a participatory mood._

“What would you have said?”

 “It doesn’t- it doesn’t matter. It isn’t my respons--”

“Tell me.”

Surprisingly, Hux senses none of the Force’s tingling prod behind the command.

“I would have said,” he says slowly, and Ren’s face - Ren’s lips - are a hair’s breadth from his own, and it would be so _easy_ \- Not here. Not under all these lights, with the door open behind them. Not now. _Not ever._ This man is an asteroid circling the mouth of a black hole. Hux can’t get pulled down with him, at least not like that.

“I would have said,” Hux repeats, “exactly what I have said. I’m not trying to raise dissent.” 

“Tell me.” Ren briefly averts his eyes. “We need to trust each other.” 

 _Can’t you just read it out of my head?_ He probably already is. Hux may as well confront the inevitable. And Ren--he ought to hear it.

“Alright then.” Hux swallows.

“Alright?”

 “I would have left out the bit about peace.” Hux lets his hands fall to his sides.

Ren’s face is eerily impassive. “Why?”

“You don’t want peace. That isn’t why you joined Snoke; that isn’t why you control the Order. And that’s- that’s fine.” No, it isn’t fine, but Hux isn’t stupid enough to say so. “You’re in this for destruction, and there’s... _utility_ in that - but what are you going to do when the galaxy’s in shards at your feet? The war’s nearly over. What are you going to do when it is?”

Ren’s fingers curl at his sides, knuckles a sharp black ridge inside his gloves. There it is--the liquid shimmer rings his eyes again, threatens to spill down his face, run in a rivulet through his scar. He blinks a few times in succession. (Hux is almost sorry.) 

“The war isn’t going to end,” Ren says, clearly forcing his lips steady. “It can’t. The Light’s always going to be out there. There’s _always_ going to be conflict.”

Hux knows Ren well enough to understand he doesn’t just mean fanatical insurgents. He’s talking about the protracted war unraveling inside his own skull, and for that, Hux has never had an answer.

Still, he’ll try. 

“Is that what your ghosts tell you?” His voice emerges too soft, perilously tender.

Ren purses his lips, shakes his head. “They don’t have to.”

The coldness settles itself in Hux’s stomach, all slimy underbelly and icy claws. It’s the sensation that would come in a different life, when Ren would say a word too many about being ripped apart from the inside out. About how absolutely anything would be better than living with the pain of it. Those nights, Hux would lock up his knife and blaster, sleep with the lightsaber on his side of the bed.

“You’re not,” Hux says, and fumbles momentarily for a euphemism, “ _giving up_ , are you?”

“No.” The answer is quick, comfortingly reflexive. Ren’s eyes leave Hux’s face, wildly drinking in the light.

“Good,” Hux manages, though the cold doesn’t quite recede. He has no adequate response, or at least not one that can be delivered at the moment. This is a terrible place to be having this conversation.

Ren studies his face for a few moments. “I hurt _you_ , and so you assume I’m not safe for myself.” 

“No. Ren. Gods, no. That’s-” Hux gathers himself. “That’s an absurdly quick leap of logic.”

“Isn’t it?”

Hux sighs. “What the _hell_ is that supposed to mean? You think I’m...doubting your rationality? Or...imagining I have some higher standing with you, even after what you did?”

“You still don’t trust me,” Ren observes, and the light shifts in his hair as he inclines his head.

It’s ridiculous. This is all ridiculous.

“What, you think _your attacking me_ is behind us because I kept watch against your ghosts, or because you ran your hand up and down my body?”

“Is that what you want?” Ren moves his face even closer to Hux’s; his voice is finally soft enough to avoid the echoes. “Is that what will--” He purses his lips. “--secure your loyalty?”

“My loyalty? That’s your concern?” Hux wishes he could laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of me.”

“Why would I be?” Ren scoffs. “You’ve had at least five opportunities to kill me since Starkiller, and you haven’t availed yourself of a single one.” 

“Since Starkiller.” Hux’s lips curl, and this is a landmine, _you need to stop and go along. Let him say his piece, let him--_ Absolutely not. “Since Starkiller, and yet you still felt the need to choke me till my vision blurred. Let me _assure_ you, that left me pretty damn loyal.”

“Hux, that isn’t what I mean; it isn’t what I’m after, I--” Ren’s hand moves to grip Hux’s forearm, but Hux takes a step backward, interrupts.

“You have the galaxy, you have the throne, you have me dancing on a puppet string. What more could you _possibly_ want?” Hux inhales, doesn’t break eye contact. “I’m needed on the bridge.” He pivots and heads toward the doorway.

“Hux.”

 _Hux_ . No title now. Would it be too much for Ren to _make up his mind_?

Hux doesn’t turn, and Ren doesn’t follow. 

Heading back up to the bridge, Hux imagines him just inside the high doors, a black speck against the harsh whiteness, like a dead thing on an iceberg.

* * *

When Hux was a child--before Arkanis was conquered and the Academy torched; before the Imperial armada fell out of the sky and into the sands of Jakku--his mother would tell him stories. He would sneak down to her quarters near the Academy kitchens, then sit beside her on the bed, their backs to the window pane while the rain beat down.

‘ _Long ago_ ,’ she would say, _‘on a planet far from this one_ -’ Those were the best words a child could hear, given the Commandant’s shouting, the incessant rain and the Academy’s high, cold walls.

Hux doesn’t remember most of the stories. He was small, and they’ve since been overwritten by formulas, blueprints, etiquette, war games. One, however, has stayed with him--that of the vibroblade, the stone, and the boy king.

On a nameless planet, in a time when a meter-long vibroblade, not a blaster, was the warrior’s instrument of choice, a realm had been in turmoil for decades after the death of its king. The king’s young son, the heir to the throne, had been fostered far from the conflict, unaware of his birthright, until one day he encountered a crowd of men gathered around a massive rock with an anvil on top of it. A brightly glowing vibroblade pierced the odd arrangement, and was permanently stuck. 

This blade had been enchanted--perhaps by some proto-Sith or early Jedi--to emerge from the stone only when gripped by the rightful king. All the men of the realm, the leaders of the warring factions, each tried their hand at it. None of them could draw it out; none of them could take the throne and bring order to the kingdom.

The boy, however, wanted to emulate them. He approached the stone amid the jeers of the crowd. ( _‘Look at him; those skinny arms could hardly lift a pail of water.’ ‘Look at him; the boy’s weak, he’s useless.’)_ Ignoring the taunts, he squared his shoulders and wrapped his hands around the hilt. He read the golden inscriptions on the blade: _Take me up_ , said one side. _Cast me away_ , said the other. Today, he would take up. He pulled with all his might, and the blade came free.

He stood before the crowd and held up the weapon. Between the blade’s own luminance and the light of the planet’s suns, it shone like a firebrand. The scoffers’ laughter withered on their lips. Everyone knelt. The kingdom knew chaos no longer.

While he could, Hux had played at the story, blade and all. In hindsight, it had probably given him an early and unhealthy interest in sticking things with sharp objects, but at least it was a useful game of make-believe. It prepared him well for what came after the war, after Arkanis, the rain, and his mother were left far behind. It stayed with him on the starships, when play was no longer much an option. (Even once off Arkanis, he’d still craved a planet far away.)

He hasn’t thought of the story in years, though, not until Ren appears on the bridge around 1400, and the crew--as one--rises to their feet, silent. It’s a policy left over from Snoke. Even though the creature had seldom ventured out of his own quarters, _rise-upon-the-Supreme-Leader’s-entry_ is drilled into Officers’ and Stormtroopers’ protocol.

Ren blinks at the crew for a moment. “At ease,” he says, then turns his attention to the line of briefers awaiting him by the viewport.

Here he is--the hidden prince, the rightful king. Whether the Force is sentient enough to actively _choose_ him, or he and his destiny are mere byproducts of metaphysical entropy, it’s impractical to begrudge him it.  

At the vacant workstation by which he’s hovering, Hux looks away from Ren and back to his datapad. He needs to arrange for the bodyguard unit. He opens his personnel application and begins flicking through profiles of Trooper battalions. This would be an easier process if Phasma were here--

Ren’s voice, sharp, cuts through his thoughts. “You’ve detected _nothing_?”

_Gods, he’s going to kill someone._

Hux glances up from his screen, half poised to approach the viewport and intervene. The briefer--it’s Opan again--takes a slight step backward. His gaze darts around Ren’s features, as if trying to decipher if this is really the same masked lunatic who sliced the ship to pieces a week ago, and if so, how afraid he should be.

“That’s- that’s unfortunately correct, sir- Supreme Leader,” Opan all but stammers. “However, we are continuing twenty-four hour comms monitoring, and will alert you at the first credible signal received.”

Ren’s back is to Hux, but he appears to consider this. “Understood, Officer,” he says at last. “Return to your division.”

“Sir.” Opan nods --bows?--and makes to exit the bridge.

Hux’s datapad times out in his hand, reverting to auto-powersave mode. A second briefer steps up, regards Ren with the same uncertain expression. She starts talking, though. Hux stands, datapad now at his side, and watches duty and apprehension war on her features.

The crew is adjusting reasonably well, he decides by the time she’s done, to the Supreme Leader’s face. Here on the _Finalizer_ , a handful saw him after Starkiller, but for most his transition from a half-droid phantom to a young man looking--for all his rest, robes, and meticulous coiffure--vaguely strung out on spice, is something wholly new. (Perhaps it’s better that he didn’t give a public address, after all.)

Hux watches Ren, bent over the next briefer’s datapad, brush a lock of hair out of his face and reveal his scar. He ought to put a mask back on (and keep what’s underneath a secret between the two of them).

 _‘Let me see you_ ,’ Hux had said to the dark chimera-creature, in a half-lit room, in another life, after what he’d belatedly realized had been months of clumsy flirting.

 _‘Let me see you.’_ It was the first time he’d asked for Ren’s trust. 

“General Hux.”

Hux blinks. “Yes, Supreme Leader?” Ren hasn’t turned around, but Hux walks up to stand beside him at the viewport.

Ren holds out a datapad that isn’t is, points to a thin red line amid a grid map of the Chommell sector. “What do you think of this signature off Naboo?”

Hux examines the screen. “What do we know about the source?”

“It’s off an Isu-Sim hyperdrive, sir,” says the briefer.

Hux cuts his eyes at Ren. “And is that...correct?” He should know.

Ren bites his lip, barely noticeably. “Yes. Should be an SSP05,” he says. “The question is whether they would head for Naboo. It seems a bit brazen of a choice; however...” 

Hux nods. Well. It seems Ren isn’t interested in chasing down these particular family demons. “Given Naboo’s history, I concur. A pastoral, Resistance-friendly world like that seems a bit obvious, even for the fugitives,” he says. “I’m sure there are a thousand Isu-Sim tagged anomalies across the galaxy in a given cycle.” 

 _Find us the right one._ The order is on the tip of Hux’s tongue, but he chokes it down. At present, it isn’t his to give.

Ren turns to the briefer, hands her back the datapad. “Stand down for the moment, but continue monitoring that airspace. Keep us apprised if the signature recurs.” _Us._ That damned plural--even (no, especially) in a professional setting, it’s like a tiny sun, warming or burning Huxto the core.

“Thank you, General,” adds Ren, without looking at him.

“Of course, Supreme Leader.” Catching a tacit dismissal, Hux half-pivots to return to the workstations.

“No,” Ren says, and Hux pivots back. “Stay. You need to hear these briefs.”

Not objecting that he’ll probably hear them all in detail later when he visits the units separately, Hux dips his head and acquiesces. Clasping his hands behind his back, he stands at Ren’s side and listens in silence to the next report.

Here in Ren’s shadow--here _as_ Ren’s shadow--Hux isn’t sure if this is where he belongs. _(Take me up.)_ However, it’s where he is, and where he’ll remain. _(Cast me away.)_

From this particular angle, at least, he has a decent view of Ren’s hair, of the viewport, and of the great, dark question marks between the stars.

* * *

Almost ten standard hours later, Hux isn’t quite undressed when his datapad chimes, screen glowing with the white stripe of a new notification. It’s the tone for the Order’s messaging platform, which he generally has little use for. He swipes open the alert banner and sighs.

Ren needs to update his title and ID image in this application. The outline of the mask--faintly blue, as if captured off a holo--annoys Hux before he can even read the text beside it.

_you aren’t asleep_

Good gods. Hux types:  _Not anymore._

_you weren’t asleep_

~~_And now I really won’t be_~~ Hux deletes the reply unfinished. He can be professional about this. _How may I be of service?_

_Take my mind off of it_

_‘It’_ goes unspecified.

 _ ~~What am I, your favorite distract~~ \-- _ _No._ Hux taps ‘send’ and moves to take off his belt. The datapad chimes again.

_Fine._

Hux pops his lips at the screen. Unexpectedly compliant of Ren. Well, if he’s going to be seeing his ghosts so much, he needs to learn to fight them on his own. 

Hux slips off his belt, curls it into itself and drapes it across his desk chair for next cycle. He lifts his boots off the floor near his bed and places them beside the desk: toes against the wall, three centimeters apart, per Academy regulation.

Ren is probably sprawled on his bed again, bloodshot eyes glistening at the ceiling. _What’s it to you? The less composed he is, the more authority on your own head._ Alternately, Ren could be slashing the walls to ribbons, trying to kill things that can’t die, and ruining the ship’s skeleton in the process. _And like it or not, the Order needs a Force user. Preferably a calm, rational, and well-rested one._

Hux runs his fingers through his hair, then again to smooth it back into place.

“Damn it,” he says aloud, and slides his boots back on, not bothering with the belt.

He makes his way to the other side of the room, where a worn gray lockbox sits in the corner. He crouches in front of it and presses his thumb to the bioreader. It hisses open, and he--with some reluctance--extracts a half-empty periwinkle decanter. The last of his alcohol is about to go the way of his _tarine_ \--this time, however, wasted on Ren. _This is a terrible idea._

Within a minute Hux has nevertheless grabbed one spare glass from over the fresher sink, pulled on his greatcoat (but not his gloves), and left his rooms. He’ll be back soon.

The walk to Ren’s quarters is quick, and thankfully devoid of staff. It’s 2300, an hour into third rotation and a perfectly inappropriate time for a general of the Order to be seen toting illicit imbibables toward his superior’s rooms.

Once outside Ren’s doorway, Hux notes the silence from within the room, and the fact that the corridor smells of neither smoke nor lightning. Those should be good signs, but instead they set him gnawing his lip. _Ren’s fine, he was just trying to provoke you, he doesn’t even need this, he--_ Too late for all that.

Tucking the decanter momentarily under his arm, Hux presses the mounted comm. He doesn’t have time to announce himself before the doors are whirring open. Ren appears between them, in his shirtsleeves, and warily regards the brandy. His silence is just long enough to be uncomfortable.

“You only brought one glass,” he finally says.

“Because I’m leaving this with you and returning to my own chambers.” Hux proffers the decanter. Ren tilts his head.

“You want me to invite you in.”

“I really don’t.” _I want you to take this and drink it till you’re dead-drunk and no longer a nuisance._  

“Come in.” Ren steps aside.

A part of Hux wishes it was the Force pulling him over the threshold and into the strangely dishevelled austerity of Ren’s bedroom. For the second night in a row. If uglier and objectively more dangerous, it would somehow be easier than the acute awareness that he can’t stop himself.

Wordlessly, Hux walks to the bedside and sets the decanter and glass on the night-table with two hollow _clunks_. Ren follows him, then lifts the bottle and examines the label.

“Corellian,” he says, ambivalently. “Found Corellian brandy, escaped Corellian freighter. Unconscious association or…?”

Hux clasps his hand behinds his back. “The only thing I had that might--”

“I can’t drink this,” Ren cuts him off. “I can’t have my mind muddled when I’m trying to reach out with the Force.”

“It sounds like the Force itself is what’s doing the muddling.” Hux gives him a sort of grimace. “Your next-best option may just be to go numb.”

Ren shakes his head. “You don’t understand,” he says icily. 

“I understand that in this condition you’re a danger to the infrastructure of this ship and to the stability of the Order.” Hux clears his throat. _Too much, too strong._ “--Supreme Leader,” he amends, slapping the title on like a bacta strip. 

“ _To the stability of the Order_?” Ren echoes, and his eyes flash. “Snoke would have executed you on the spot for that. It’s treason.”

Hux lifts his chin, clenches hands tighter to still their shaking. “Will you?”

Ren bites his lip, glances at his feet, then looks back up at Hux, gaze stony. “I’ll write it off as ignorance. You don’t understand.”

 _Ignorance._ The fabric of Hux’s gloves strains against his tightened fingers. _Let it go, he knew you would hate that, he knows you too well--_ Fine.

Hux dips his head and swallows. “I only thought to obey your orders, Supreme Leader--give you some kind of distraction. I’m unsure what else you had in mind.” 

Ren makes no reply, but rounds the bed to sit down on the side opposite Hux. He leans back against the pillows at the headboard and pulls his knees to his chest.

“Sit down,” he says. It’s neither a question nor an offer.

Ren needs some fucking chairs in here. Hux can’t keep sitting on the bed, if these night-cycle moral support sessions are going to become a routine occurrence. It’s one thing to get briefed side by side on deck (Hux is his shadow, and that’s _fine_ .) In private, however, they need space. (Or Hux will lose his mind with _need_.) 

But for the present, Hux slips his coat off his shoulders, perches himself on the edge of the gray coverlet, and kicks off his boots. Ignoring the urge to pick them up and go arrange them toes-to-the-wall, he pivots toward Ren, feet still on the floor.

“Well?” says Hux.

Ren’s eyes run the length of the bed. “Get comfortable, please.”

_As if that were possible._

“Certainly,” Hux says, simpering. He swings his legs onto the bed and folds them under him. He’s positioned parallel to the headrest and perpendicular to Ren’s folded form.

They sit in silence for a minute. Hux studies the muted glint of the durasteel ceiling. He should have brought his datapad. 

“You really don’t have them, do you?” Ren’s voice is quiet, almost hushed. “Ghosts?” 

Hux keeps his eyes on the ceiling. _What the hell kind of obvious question--_ He swallows. “I’m not like you, Ren,” he says, dispassionately. “A whole Force-army could be following me around, and I’d be none the wiser.” 

“It isn’t just with the Force, you know--only a very few Force-users are strong enough to retain their individuality after death. That’s only a part of it. That isn’t necessarily what I see, it’s…”

Ren trails off, and Hux looks toward him. Ren’s wrists are slung across his knees, but he’s still gesturing with his ungloved hands. He’s _relaxed_ , Hux realizes, and he isn’t sure why that surprises him. 

“What _do_ you see?” Hux asks, matching Ren’s tone. 

“I don’t know,” says Ren. “That’s why I’m asking you about it.”

 “And why would I be _any_ kind of solid resource on the metaphysical?”

“Not the metaphysical, not exactly.” Ren idly curls his fingers. “Just… I mean, there’s the Commandant.”

 _Performanceperformanceperformanceweak-willed_ \--and the man’s bloated, unconscious face gaping out of the bacta tank.

It shouldn’t feel nostalgic that Ren remembers Hux telling him (half-confessing, half-gloating to him) over Corellian brandy. _Of course he remembers that you’re a parricidal bastard._ Now not so much unlike himself. 

“What about the Commandant,” Hux says, and compulsively picks a hangnail, eyes still fixed on Ren. 

Ren ignores him. “And- especially Starkiller, and the Hosnian System. Dealing out death, That kind of disturbance in the Force, I just thought…” He pauses and shakes his head, apparently distracted, then sits up straighter. “I never told you what it was like.”

“You were somewhat pre-occupied,” Hux demurs, relieved by the change of topic, however bittersweet a subject Starkiller is.

“You should know.” Ren looks at him, and his eyes are intent, mostly pupil in the dim acetylene light, sparkling with something that isn’t tears. 

“Alright then.”

“Every death,” Ren says, “leaves a sort of _deformation_ in the Force, however temporary. The Force loses that particular vessel, while the individual is absorbed into a different part of it. While it doesn’t lose its substance, it loses its shape. Most deaths aren’t loud, aren’t messy, and are--to an extent--singular. The void is filled by a new birth, the Force manifests in new life; that particular balance is more or less restored.”

“Ah.” Hux would like to see this graphed on flimsiplast, with a few proofs in the margins, but he says nothing. This, at least, is Ren’s forte. 

“I had heard, from Skyw-- from my old master, how the destruction of, say, Alderaan, that much loss of life, affected other Force-users, but I didn’t expect-- When Starkiller fired, it was this massive _silencing_ , and the Force ricocheting in on itself, this enormous oscillation as it tried to reshape.” Ren takes a breath, and his hands are loose.

“And I knew _you_ were down on that base,” he continues, “conducting it all. I had always thought it would take some immensely powerful Force-user--someone like me--to set off that kind of ripple in the Force, but--you did. In a way I doubt any Snoke or Vader or Palpatine or Skywalker ever could have.” Ren eyes fall to Hux’s hands--one on the coverlet, one hanging off the headboard where his elbow his propped. “It was beautiful.”

Hux blinks for a moment, realizes he’s now leaning one side against the pillows. His elbow is slung on the headrest, and his hand dangles a few centimeters from Ren’s shoulder. He isn’t sure how much of this he believes--whether due to his schooling or his intimate knowledge of Ren’s theatrics--but against his will it sends a surge of warmth through him.

 _Beautiful._ It was how he always thought of the dead planet, the machine. It doesn’t matter now--doesn’t matter to the burnt-out meteors floating in the weapon’s place--but it still feels _solid_ , feels warm and real, to hear Ren say it. And _a ripple in the Force_. He likes the sound of that.

But he collects his thoughts and clears his throat. “I thought we’d cleared up the allegiance issue, Supreme Leader.” The title suddenly feels wrong on his lips, only in part because he once coveted it. “There’s no need to flatter me.”

“Flattered.” Ren actually smiles. “You’re told your act of interplanetary genocide offset the spiritual balance of the universe, and you’re _flattered_.”

“Considering the source…” Hux ventures, and his lips turn upward. 

“That’s fair.” Ren laughs softly and looks away. His bare wrists rest on his knees, hands dangling off with the long fingers slightly curled and the chemical light glinting faintly off the nails. Hux watches the knobs of his joints, counts the calluses that his gloves can’t prevent. 

Hux blinks, finds his voice again. “Is that why you’re keeping me alive, then?” His tone is almost teasing. “So I’ll build you another big gun and maximize your destructive potential?” Hux lifts an eyebrow. 

“Is that an offer?” Ren turns back to him, and his eyes are bright, lips are twitching. 

“Honored to oblige,” Hux returns, and studies Ren’s face. He realizes with a sudden, voracious clarity that he would do anything--absolutely anything--for Ren to always look like this: hands relaxed, creases at the corners of his eyes, a smile teasing at his lips. It isn’t fair.

Ren’s quiet for a moment, and starts tapping a finger against his knee. “That’s really how you think of it,” he says after a moment, in that flat, observatory tone. The smile has dissolved. “That I’m ‘ _keeping you alive_.’” 

“It seems an accurate impression.” Hux somehow manages a shrug.

“And are you satisfied with that?”

“I- I’m not certain it matters.” Hux swallows. He’s certain Ren can hear his pulse hammering, beating against his skin like a blaster salute. “I’ve told you a dozen times you have my allegiance, what more do you--” 

“I have your fear,” Ren murmurs, and he’s facing Hux again. “That- that isn’t enough. Hux, I want--”

And his eyes drop to the surface of the bed, to Hux’s bare hand all but trembling on the coverlet. Head still bowed, he looks up at Hux under the dramatic eyelashes, full lips quivering faintly. 

There’s something vulnerable in it, something of the Snoke’s new apprentice reaching up to remove his mask in the half-light of Hux’s chambers, something of the soft, unsteady voice: _‘You won’t like what you see.’_  

There’s something broken in it, of bruises on Ren’s chest, his face, his throat, under the armor and drapery; of blood in the snow on Starkiller, and the reminder that he’s far more man than machine.

There’s something in it of the shards of the mask in the _Supremacy’s_ elevator. Something shattered and in need of fixing.

Ren’s eyes are shimmering. Hux can’t stand it.

“Hux, I need-”

“I know.”

 _Fuck it._ Hux leans over and presses his lips to Ren’s, less tentatively than is wise, but the galaxy is won, and the war will never end and _I need him_ . Ren responds firmly, greedily, like a starving man, then his hands are in Hux’s hair, are brushing his cheekbones, are cupping his neck. (For one awful second Hux wants to flinch, and the thoughts are screaming _stop._ ) (He can’t.)

Hux buries his fingers in Ren’s hair, lets the strands caress his skin in all their unbearable softness. This is wrong and right and disaster and utopia. He doesn’t care.

When they pull apart, forehead to forehead, nose to nose, Ren’s eyes are shining, pupil and dark iris blurred together, catching the light. His fingers toy with Hux’s collar.

“This is terrible politics.” Hux traces a finger down Ren’s scar.

Ren laughs, and Hux drinks in the cannon-thunder of it. “We’re not to politics yet,” he says. _(The war will never end.)_ “This is- martial law.” He kisses Hux again, like a famished man or a dying one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S/o to Tennyson's 'Idylls of the King' for the 'Take me up/Cast me away' inscription on space!Arthur's sword-in-the-stone--I honestly couldn't help myself.


	3. iiia.

_"And indeed there will be time  
_ _To wonder, 'Do I dare?' and, 'Do I dare?'  
_ _Time to turn back and descend the stair_ _....  
_ _Do I dare  
_ _Disturb the universe?  
_ _In a minute there is time  
_ _For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse."_

(T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock)

* * *

Hux awakens slowly, into near-total darkness, registering first a dim, bluish glow in his periphery; then the fact that he’s slept half on his side, and his left arm is stiff; then the thrilling, solid warmth of Ren’s arm around his own bare waist; then the scent of Ren’s hair, centimeters from his nose.

 _Right._ This.

Ren’s breathing is steady, gentle - no sign of nightmares, of phantoms real or imagined, nor Force-contrived hybrids of the two. _What’s the time?_ Ren may have actually slept through the night. Or more critically, Hux may be late for duty hours, as there’s no alarm set in here.

_Then you shouldn’t have left your fucking datapad in your fucking chambers. Or maybe you should have gone back to your fucking chambers like you said you were fucking going to, instead of staying in here like some goddamn imperial concubi--_

Hux shuts his eyes again, briefly, focuses on the rhythm of Ren’s exhales. It’s too early for this. Some pitiful part of him wants to bury his face in Ren’s chest and stay cocooned in here, oblivious, letting Ren’s respiration (or his moans and sighs) muffle the cacophony in his own head. No matter. _What’s the time._

He rolls over as gingerly as possible under the dead weight of Ren’s arm, not willing to disentangle himself entirely. Now facing the blue-glowing chrono on the nightstand (the only light source in the room), Hux finds the digits obscured through the prism of the untouched decanter in front of it. He reaches to scoot the vessel out of the way (brandy sloshing dark and somehow onerous in the bottom).

Ren stirs faintly with the movement. _(Fuck._ ) But at least he hasn’t jolted awake, gasping, all nerves. He relaxes again, but Hux still winces, reading the chrono.

0530\. Lovely _._ He has an hour to make himself presentable.

He gropes for the control pad above the bed (gods, it’s been a year and his hand still knows the way to it in the dark). He dials the lights up just enough, and with effort slips out of Ren’s arm and the bedding, to swing his feet onto the floor. He’s hardly registered the cold against his bare skin when:

“Hux?”

Shit. Hux meant to let him sleep. Still on the edge of the bed, Hux pivots. Ren’s blinking up at him, hair half over his eyes. “Good morning.”

Ren’s gaze flicks to the chrono. “It’s five-thirty.”

“And I have to report by oh-six thirty.” Hux turns back around, eyes his boots on the floor beside his bare feet. A rustling behind him - Ren’s sat up.

“You really don’t.”

Hux turns again, and rolls his eyes at the smug curve of Ren’s lips. He’s smiling himself, though.

“Of course I do, _Supreme Leader_.” On an awful, irresistible whim, Hux leans across the mattress and pecks Ren’s lips. Barely drawing away, he adds,“They may have found your freighter overnight.”

“They’d have pinged me if they had.” Ren lifts an eyebrow, a challenge.

“Perhaps,” says Hux. He sounds positively coquettish in his own ears.

“They _are_ under orders.” Ren leans forward, until his lips all but brush Hux’s cheekbone. “I’m sure they can manage one late morning without your supervision.”

Hux shuts his eyes for a moment, lets himself savor the burst of heat flowering in his chest. Then he pulls back with carefully exaggerated longsuffering, mouth twitching, and stands. Turning to face Ren, he folds his arms over his bare chest.

“Nonetheless,” he says, “I’m _expected_ .” Naked in the half-light, Hux suddenly feels all jutting ribs and webs of veins under translucent skin, while Ren sits there, half-swathed in bedding, with his _arms_ and his _chest_ and the lovely knotted muscles of his neck, looking chiseled out of stone, like a statue of a god in some gallery. (Never mind the scars.)

Ren looks up at him, gaze drifting lower as a grin spreads across his face. He’s fucking beautiful like this, smiling. “Not like that, you aren’t.”

“Gods, Ren.” Hux smirks and rubs his arms. “I’m in the process of becoming decent.” His eyes roam the floor. “Have you seen my--”

“Yeah.” Ren nods obliquely to the foot of the bed on his own side. Hux rounds the bed and sizes up the accusing black heap. There lies his uniform with the last shreds of his resolve.

“You can use the sonic in here, if you’re quiet,” Ren adds, as Hux starts gathering his clothes.

“If I’m _quiet_?”

“I’m trying to sleep.” Ren shrugs and inches slightly further down into the sheets.

Hux steps halfway into the ‘fresher. “You won’t get back to sleep,” he says, over his shoulder. Nonetheless, he showers quietly.

When he emerges from the ‘fresher--looking deceptively professional, but for the untidy state of his hair--Ren’s still awake. Of course.

“Sure you don’t want to get an early start?” Hux says, pausing by the bedroom door to shrug on his greatcoat. (Blaster and knife are both secure inside it, which is comforting.)

Ren shakes his head. “I’ll be out later.”

By which he probably means eleven hundred, per the developing pattern.

Hux dips his head. “Shall I get the lights, then?”

“Please.”

Hux taps the control pad by the doorway, and total darkness settles over the room, except for the stubborn blue glow of the chrono.

Ren’s side of the bed is in shadow. “Thanks,” he says, from the heart of it.

* * *

Ren isn’t out later.

It’s a bit surprising, given his _efforts_ yesterday, but then again, Kylo Ren is anything but predictable. If his absence weren’t making for such a productive morning, Hux might be concerned.

* * *

 **To:** SL K REN

 **From:** GEN A HUX

 **Subject:** Request approval on audience chamber

>>Sent 34.654, 1243 GST

_Supreme Leader,_

_Your temporary audience chamber has been set up in the suite surveyed last cycle. It is available for approval at your earliest convenience. Please advise whether it is sufficient._

_Hux_

GEN A. Hux  
First Order, High Command  
Secure Com: 49346850687  
“The elements of the art of war are firstly, Measurement; secondly, Estimation; thirdly, Calculation; fourthly, Balancing of chances; fifthly, Victory.” -Vitiate

* * *

After a morning coordinating the audience chamber setup from the bridge, then a visit to examine the final product, Hux retreats into his office with two nutrient bars and a steeping mug of some kind of citrus tea. He doesn’t have much hope for the tea, but it’s got to be better than that green stuff. (And definitely better than caf.)

It feels like years since he’s been in here, but it’s somehow barely been a standard week. The balance of the universe has shifted since then, but his desk looks the same as he left it. A few sheets of flimsiplast--memos Canady or someone had insisted on printing and having hand-delivered--rest in a neglected stack. The tags of three dead Tarine bags hang over the lip of a dirty mug. There are even a couple bar wrappers and a blotch where he’d spilled a few drops of soup.

A cleaning droid really should have cleared this mess off--Hux should really call for a cleaning droid right now.

And yet--there’s something idiotically comforting about the illusion of constancy. He tosses the wrappers into the wastebin under the desk and settles into his chair. He’ll review some draft after-action reports while he awaits a response from Ren.

He waits.

* * *

 **To:** SL K REN

 **From:** GEN A HUX

 **Subject:** RE: Request approval on audience chamber

>>Sent 34.163, 1421 GST

_Supreme Leader:_

_Please confirm receipt of the notification sent at 1243._

_Hux_

GEN A. Hux  
First Order, High Command  
Secure Com: 09218587  
“The elements of the art of war are firstly, Measurement; secondly, Estimation; thirdly, Calculation; fourthly, Balancing of chances; fifthly, Victory.” -Vitiate

* * *

The citrus tea isn’t too bad. The draft reports, on the other hand, are atrocious.

In the analysts’ defense, it would be a rhetorical feat beyond even Hux’s skill to write an accurate assessment of the Crait fiasco that didn’t pin at least _some_ of the blame on ‘the Supreme Leader’s theatrics.’ However, Hux would certainly word it less treasonously.

Not that Ren would ever actually _read_ an after-action report to know the difference. But still.

(Not that Ren would ever actually read _anything_ sent to him, for that matter.)

* * *

 **To:** SL K REN

 **From:** GEN A HUX

 **Subject:** RE: RE: Request approval on audience chamber

>>Sent 34.163, 1608 GST

_Please confirm receipt._

GEN A. Hux  
First Order, High Command  
Secure Com: 09218587  
“The elements of the art of war are firstly, Measurement; secondly, Estimation; thirdly, Calculation; fourthly, Balancing of chances; fifthly, Victory.” -Vitiate

* * *

Hux refreshes his holomail application, having cleared a solid third of his cluttered inbox. Still nothing from Ren.

Hux is sure he’s fine. He’s not even remotely worried. More than likely, Ren’s been meditating all day. Who knows, he could burst into the office at any moment with the Resistance ship’s location.

_Or he’s just been ignoring you._

(Shut up.) The thought stings far more than it should.

Hux closes his eyes briefly, tamping down the flare of anxiety, then opens a new message. He starts drafting a tasker to the engineers about equipping the _Finalizer_ for hyperspace tracking, in the event that Ren’s meditation doesn’t pay off soon or that he isn’t meditating at all.

Whatever. If Ren hasn’t replied in an hour, he’ll try a direct message instead.

* * *

_Check your holomail._

Delivered: 1731

* * *

 Tasker completed, a few pings to subordinate officers confirm that none of them have seen or heard from Ren this cycle.

* * *

_Are you alright?_

Delivered: 1856

* * *

Hux waits.

Either it isn’t just Hux Ren’s ignoring, or-- Fuck.

More correctly, fuck it. Fuck everything:

_I’m coming down to you._

Delivered: 1934

_To make sure you aren’t dead._

Delivered: 1934

_I’m not dead_

Delivered: 1938

 _Very well._ _Understood._

Delivered: 1939

_Enjoy your evening._

Delivered: 1940

_*Enjoy your evening, Supreme Leader._

Delivered: 1940 

_Still come_

Delivered: 1945

* * *

“How was your day?” Ren’s sitting cross-legged in the floor, chest bare, back propped against the side of the bed. (It’s a meditative pose, but who knows if he’s having any luck.) He runs a hand through his hair as he looks up at Hux.

“It was fine,” Hux says. “Productive.” He shifts his weight and considers whether to keep his coat on. “Should I bother returning the question?”

Ren gnaws his lip for a moment. "I've been trying to reactivate my connection with the girl. With Rey."  
  
"Oh." Some part of Hux’s brain registers the vitriol in Ren's tone, but there's still a voice yelling _slutuglyweakdisgustingfoolishsentimentalcodependent_ _You Are Not Enough_. "So that's why I'm here." Hux purses his lips, swallows. "I'm the next-best alternative."  
  
Ren actually rolls his eyes. "Shut up. You know this is for...reconnaissance purposes." Before Hux can generate an appropriately snide response, Ren goes on: "Are you going to take your coat off, or do I have to do it for you?"  
  
Within minutes, Hux's uniform is scattered across the floor, and he finds himself pressed against the solid warmth of Ren's chest. Ren's lips are on his neck and his own fingers are in Ren's hair and Ren's pulling him toward the mattress and his mind is a supernova of _yes_ and- damn it, he forgot to ask about the throne r- the audience chamber.  
  
But the exploding-star heat dries his mouth, melts something in his chest, and burns a void in his gut with the sheer _hunger_ of it.

He'll ask later.

* * *

The replacement collection dish arrives from the manufacturer, Arakyd, in the early hours of the next cycle, and Hux--after waking up sore and dressing silently--goes down to inspect it first thing. It’s a matte grey half-bowl of an instrument dominating several meters of hangar space, external installation to start immediately. Hux doesn’t notify Ren.

He returns to the bridge for briefings. Four hours pass, and then 1100 passes. Ren doesn’t appear.

By 1200, Hux is back in his office, chipping away at the rest of his inbox. A cleaning droid still hasn’t been in, and his collection of dirty tea mugs has expanded to three. (He’s getting so good at ignoring messes that it doesn’t bother him much.)

With Ren absent from the bridge, the immediacy of locating the Resistance freighter has begun to wear off. Not that it isn’t still the Order’s major priority, but… If neither signals collection nor Ren’s sixth, seventh, and _n_ -to-the-thousandth senses can find the thing, Hux isn’t going to help by constantly hovering on the bridge. Not, at least, when he’ll be much better focused on running managing the Order here in the quiet.

 _Quiet Office Consideration, Priority Ultra_ : the fleet. He doesn’t have the manpower to replace all of the ships destroyed with the _Supremacy_ , but there are enough reinforcements in the Unknown Regions to fill at least a few replacement cruisers, maybe even a dreadnought, too. After some research and calculation, he types a secure message to Kuat-Entralla with an order and an offer. The Kuat of Kuat herself replies within an hour; his offer is “almost insultingly low” ( _sure_ , it is); bargaining begins, and runs on and off in the Holomail thread.

Around 1700, he returns to the bridge: no Ren, no Resistance, Bolander reports. His datapad dings one last time for the cycle. Oh. Wonderful. No deal with Kuat-Entralla either (not yet, anyway).

Nothing much happens--besides scheduling an open-source intelligence briefing for tomorrow, deciding on the new collections dish’s target sectors, and a couple of personnel actions--but Hux stays on the bridge till 2200.

It was a busy cycle, a _productive_ cycle (again). Hux leaves the bridge with the best of intentions: go straight to his chambers, take an indulgently long sonic, _actually sleep_. Somewhere, he makes a wrong turn.

* * *

“Come in.” Ren’s voice is faint over the comm, tone either detached or distracted. That shouldn’t be disappointing, but-- _What, did you expect him to fling open the door and kiss you hello? It’s surprising he even invited you in, you--_ The doors whir open, truncating the thoughts.

Ren hasn’t stood up to greet him; he hasn’t even _looked_ up. He’s seated at his desk in the near corner of the room, still half-dressed, bent over his lightsaber with a long, thin stylus-like utensil. The tool moves rapidly, unsteadily, till it’s half a blur--maybe it’s supposed to vibrate--

No. Fucking hell. It’s Ren’s hands. His hands are shaking. Violently. Even the one holding the hilt of the lightsaber spasms, for all its white-knuckled grip.

Hux swallows. It’s been years since he last saw this particular side effect of being the most powerful creature in the universe, and _fuck_ , what did he do about it then? ( _Should_ he do anything about it now, or just savor the apparent frailty while it lasts?) Whatever. He can still stay and...observe.

Ren’s silent, intent on the lightsaber, gnawing his dry, cracked lower lip. Apparently Hux will have to initiate conversation. Of course.

“I wasn’t aware it needed fixing.”

Ren gives a sort of grunt. “It’s sparking too much.”

“As opposed to situation normal,” Hux deadpans, “when it sparks a perfectly healthy and expected amount.”

Ren doesn’t crack a smile. “Yeah,” he says, tone clipped, and turns the tool (or tries to). “The crystal’s loose. I need to tighten the casing around it.”

Hux doesn’t bother asking what loosened it. Two fresh black gashes in the walls (one by Vader’s mask, one over the desk) already answer him eloquently. _You shouldn’t be in here. He’s shredding this room to bits and what if you’re nex--_

“Aren’t you concerned about breaking it in the process?” Hux says, drowning out the mental protests.

“No.” Ren finally meets Hux’s gaze, taking the stylus out of the lightsaber to tremble between his fingers. The veins stand out on the backs of his hands, and Hux imagines tracing them with his thumbs (or his lips). “Why do you ask?”

Hux rolls his eyes, and the urge dissipates. (Leave it to Ren’s utter pigheadedness to dissolve his fantasies.) “With your hands like that.”

“My hands are fine.”

Ren turns back to the saber, holding the stylus above it while his grip only tightens. “My hands are--” A ripple of energy radiates briefly from him, and the slender cylinder splinters and snaps. The two halves clink to the desktop. Ren loosens his grip on the lightsaber and lowers his now-empty hand, flexing the fingers to hide the tremor.

Hux shakes his head. “What happened? What...did this?”

“Nothing,” says Ren, too quickly. “Been reaching out again.”

“And?”

Who knows, the physical effect could mean he’s nearing a breakthrough. It could.

But Ren just purses his lips and swallows, staring obliquely at the silvered surface of the desk. “It’s a process, Hux.”

Hux hmms his skepticism.

That may be true (the _process_ thing), but this--the shaking, the silence, the reclusion--gives the undeniable impression that Ren’s been alone in his own head too long. If he’d come out and actually _do_ the job he decided to give himself, maybe he’d have something besides his demons to worry about-- But _no_. Gods. Disastrous idea.

It would give Hux, on the other hand, quite a bit to worry about. However much an attempt at professional responsibility might benefit Ren’s mental health, it certainly won’t benefit the Order. Hux is prepared to accept Ren’s leadership if he must, but he’d be an idiot to encourage it.

Hux watches Ren in silence for a moment, watches his fingers absently curl around one piece of the shattered tool, alternately twirling it between them and gripping it tight, as if he’s fumbling for something solid to hold onto.

“You can go,” he says abruptly, still not looking at Hux. “If you want. I know _this--”_ He lifts his left hand from the lightsaber, and lets it twitch a moment in the air before lowering it back to the desk. “--isn’t what you came for.”

Good gods, is that emotionally-stunted dark lord for ‘ _not tonight, dear_ ’?

“I actually came to inspect the new damage to your wall, but--” Hux takes Ren’s hand--the one Ren just held up, curled loosely by the hilt of the lightsaber. He runs his thumb over the knuckles and grasps the fingers so tightly they go almost still. He can feel the repressed spasms against his grip like a second pulse.

It could be the shadows, but Ren’s lips seem to curve upward--softly, ephemerally. It shouldn’t feel like a gut-punch to see the smile disappear.

“You can’t--” Hux starts, on impulse, but can’t quite finish.

He knows better than to venture down the wormhole that continues, _‘--do this to yourself.’_ That only leads to one place (to _‘come out and rule us’_ ), and just because Supreme Leader Ren was well-behaved on the bridge a few cycles ago does _not_ mean he’s suddenly a competent, stable leader. Better if he takes off as many cycles as possible, while Hux secures some authority.

“Can’t what?” Ren might mean it to come out sounding suspicious--perhaps even menacing--but he’s blinking up at Hux like an inquisitive child, and his hair is falling in his face.

_You can’t just let him sit in here and suffer; you love--_

No. Hux loves the Order. (He loves seeing the road to an empire carving itself beneath his feet.) So he’ll offer Ren comfort, but no solution.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” he says, and kisses Ren before he can think better of it.

* * *

It turns out that an emotionally-stunted dark lord’s _‘not tonight’_ is about as fixed a thing as any of his other moods. Hux knows this from experience, of course, but the next morning in his office--struggling to focus, teeth worrying his still-swollen lips--he isn’t sure that’s a net-positive thing.

Operationally speaking, nothing has changed overnight: no Resistance, no fleet deal (though he’s getting there). The open-source briefing indicated the need for a new public diplomacy campaign, which he needs to draft requirements for, and honestly it’s a bit later than ideal for a propaganda update.

But the tactical _obsession_ of the first days since the coup dominated all of his attention, meanwhile strategic priorities fell to the wayside. That's Kylo fucking Ren all over. (It's also the problem with _fucking_ Kylo Ren, of course--instant gratification while ignoring the long-term risk.) Hux purses his lips and hopes they aren’t too red.

* * *

The day passes. The deal comes through. No one comments on the state of Hux’s mouth (as if they’d dare).

He checks on Ren after his rotation. (Checks to see if his mood has improved.)

Oh, shit. (It has.)

* * *

"This is repulsive."  
  
0200 and the lights are still dim. Hux traces a finger down the bare, mangled, scarcely-healed flesh of Ren's left side. Two puckered scar lines crisscross in an x of incisions, fading but still angry-looking, for all they're half in shadow.  
  
"Then why do you want to put your mouth on it?" There's the faintest smile in Ren's tone, and he's looking at the ceiling, one arm around Hux, the other behind his head.  
  
"I don't want-"  
  
"You do."  
  
Fuck him. Hux’s head rests on Ren’s chest, and his arm is slung lazily across Ren’s torso, letting him tease the ridge of the scar.  
  
The haze of release, of contentment, of calm that’s fogged his mind, however, is beginning to dissipate, replaced by the predictable clamor of reproofs: _You_ animal _, this is disgusting, clean yourself up and get out of here right-fucking-now, you can’t keep doing this, you need to focus on the_ work _\--_  
  
But Hux lifts his gaze, and Ren is beautiful in profile, in the half-light, with wisps of hair clinging to the light sweat on his forehead.

Hux keeps rubbing his thumb over the scar, feeling out the unnatural roughness of it, the scoring where the stitches have dissolved.

“It’s healing well,” he offers, after a moment of quiet. “I was worried--” he starts, but stops himself in time.

“You were _what_?”

“Nothing, Ren.” Hux pinches the tender skin around the scar.

Ren flinches and hisses in a breath, but goes on undeterred. “I want to hear you say it again.”

“I’m sure you do.”

But Ren just laughs, as if he thinks he’s scored a point. His fingers rub circles at Hux’s waist. “How does it feel, General,” he says after a moment, with a certain air of theater, “being the last poor idiot in the galaxy to give a fuck about Kylo Ren.”

“It feels, Supreme Leader,” Hux answers, primly, “like fucking a presumptuous dickhead.”

“Really?” Ren gives a funny little half-snort, and Hux can hear the grin in his voice. “Then it’s a more familiar feeling than I’d thought.”

Hux laughs, and doesn’t bother pointing out that the voice in his head has never let him presume a thing in his life.

Funny how Ren’s voice doesn’t work the same way. Or maybe it does, given the apparent declaration of love he’s been trying to wheedle out of Hux since Crait. (Hux will give him no such satisfaction.)

“You’re insufferable.” Hux props himself up and leans over just enough to press his lips to the burnmark where Ren’s collarbone meets his shoulder. “I hope you know that.” He scrapes his teeth over the rough edges of the scar.

Ren sighs, almost raggedly, and Hux lifts his head to see Ren’s eyelids flutter shut. “Keep telling me,” Ren says.

It’s close enough to an order that Hux doesn’t question it.

* * *

The beginning of Hux’s next rotation finds a follow-up message from the Kuatis: they want a sixty-percent down payment. It’s excessive, to say the least, but still manageable, given the Order’s current credit holdings. More alarming is the request in and of itself--apparently one of the Order’s major suppliers has next to no confidence in its resources.

Well, Hux will have to put their concerns to rest. He transfers the credits and approves the invoice for the final forty percent, to be paid upon delivery of the ships.

A reply promises fufillment in three standard weeks (and of course offers an expedited timeline for a not-insubstantial surcharge). Three weeks isn’t long to wait. It would take the Resistance longer than that to muster a viable allied force, and in the meantime, they’ll probably be located and annihilated.

In the event that they aren’t, however, the _Finalizer_ will have to be diverted from its pursuit mission in three weeks--for Hux to visit Kuat and examine the finished products. If Ren weren’t technically Supreme Leader, if the pursuit mission weren’t his top priority, and if he could be trusted to cope well with short notice of the stop-off, Hux wouldn’t mention this to him.

Given _reality_ , however, there’s no way around it. He opens the messaging application.

_My chambers, 1800?_

Delivered: 1314

_...that’s early_

Delivered: 1315

_??_

Delivered: 1315

_Sure_

Delivered: 1316

* * *

Several hours later, Hux is scrolling through reports, perched on his couch, when his chamber doors iris open unceremoniously. The strip of lights above them flashes red at the override as Hux looks up from his datapad. The doors click shut behind Ren, who's put on a sleeveless undershirt for the occasion. His arms are crossed, his lips half curved into a smirk.  
  
"Why are we in your rooms tonight?"  
  
Hux ignores the fact that 1800 isn’t technically the night cycle, then swallows back a futile _who-said-anything-about-tonight._

“I’d hoped if you had to leave your rooms you’d actually put some clothes on.”

“These are clothes.” Ren sounds amused, which beats most alternatives.

Hux flicks his gaze up and down Ren’s form, mostly for show. “If you say so,” he says, trying not to be alarmed. There was a time when Ren would have left his chambers in no less than full mask, cowl, and mantle; now he’s shown up at Hux’s door in shirtsleeves and day-old jodhpurs a size too big. (Hux isn’t sure which is worse.)

Ren steps toward the couch as if he means to sit beside Hux, but Hux sets his datapad on the cushion. He wordlessly points to the armchair on the other side of the couch.

“...Alright.” An unreadable emotion flickers across Ren’s face, but he complies.“What did I do?” he asks once seated, luckily not sounding entirely serious.

“Nothing.” Hux pivots toward him. “I just need you at arms’ length if this conversation’s going to be productive.”

“Sounds ominous.”

"We need to discuss _mission priorities_ , Ren.”  
  
“This is really a step down from your usual dirty talk.” Ren’s definitely smirking now, leaning back into the blue upholstery with his arms folded.

"Given that there's no other time when I have your full attention..."  
  
"I know." Ren cuts Hux off, then swings up an ankle to rest on the opposite knee."You want to talk about the fleet."  
  
"Are you reading my thoughts, or have you actually been considering this on your own?"  
  
"You know I have difficulty with your mind."  
  
Hux sighs. "That it is to say, you've been thinking about it?" he says, slowly.

“Of course I have.” (Could have fooled Hux.) “I’ve made an arrangement with Kuat-Entralla. They’re building us three new battle cruisers and a dreadnought by the end of the month.”

“What?” There’s no way Hux is hearing this right.

Ren shrugs. “I contacted them over secure Holomail, I made them an offer, we haggled for a few messages. Then we reached a deal, and I made a down payment this afternoon. I don’t think I copied you on it, but I’m sure you’re monitoring--”

“I’m not.” Hux inhales sharply, runs a hand compulsively through his hair. Oh fuck. “I’m really not. Maybe I should be.”

Oh _fuck_ . They’ve duplicated the contract. They’ve duplicated the contract, and Kuat-Entralla _let_ them, and scored double the profit off their miserable communication skills.

“Tell me again,” Hux says, “what you did.”

“You heard me.” Ren laughs. (Of course he does, because he doesn’t _know.)_  “There are _some_ things I’m useful for besides sex and hand-to-hand combat.”

 _“_ I...I know. I’d forgotten. I shouldn’t have.”

_The budget’s shot, the budget’s shot, the budget’s shot. You’re so fucking stupid, so fucking arrogant that you never thought he’d--_

“What are you talking about?”

Hux bites his lip. “I- made an identical deal with them.”  He runs his hands back through his hair. “And a sixty percent down payment.” There’s something awful about saying it aloud, as if he’s taking a cannon to the Order’s account rather than quietly scuttling holes in it.

Somehow, Ren laughs again. “You did?”

“Yes.”

“That’s hilarious.”

“Not really.” Hux isn’t actively tapping his fingers against the armrest so much as letting them squirm at random. “Not at all, since it’s now _double_ the huge dent in our resources. And they’re probably only planning to give us one set of ships. Gods. Fuck.” He inhales again. “How much did you pay?”

“Sixty percent, same as you.”

“The _amount_?”

“I don’t know. I can pull up the invoice on your datapad.” For some reason he holds out his hand rather than summoning it with the Force. Hux passes him the device, and he taps around for a few seconds before handing it back to Hux. “There.”

Hux scrolls through the document, skimming the specifications on each ship, closing out of three-dimensional blueprints as they pop up above the screen. He reaches the bottom--the fees.

Damn. Ren did well.

“That’s-” Hux manages, after a moment, “that’s a good price.”

“Better than what you got?”

“By a bit.” _By a solid 800 million credits._

Ren smiles. “I figure I’m a fairly intimidating negotiator.”

Hux shakes his head, can’t take sitting anymore, and rises to pace the floor. “Sixty percent of that, plus sixty percent of what I got, is still a massive hole in the budget.” He rakes his fingers through his hair again, acutely aware it’s probably mussing the gel, but unable to stop himself. “Even controlling this many sectors, resources are tight. We don’t even have a taxation system in place. We can’t afford--” He reaches the wall and turns. “I can’t-- this shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have let--”

“We can get the money back, you know.”

“We both signed off on it, Ren. Even if they’re...swindling us, it’s our own damn fault.” Hux clenches and unclenches his fists, shuts his eyes for a second, then reaches the nearer wall and pivots, to see Ren standing.  “Gods, this is such--

Ren walks toward him, blocking his path, then steps close and places both hands on Hux’s shoulders. “No one’s going to _swindle_ the Order. No one gets to.”

“So what are you saying, we attack them? They’re our primary spacecraft supplier, we can’t just--”

“Right.” Ren sounds impatient. “So we go to Kuat. Talk to them. Use our leverage. It’ll be easy.”

“If by _leverage_ you mean Force-choking the Kuat of Kuat into submission, that isn’t a long-term solution.”

"I know." Ren's gaze strays momentarily to Hux's neck. "But I shouldn’t need to. If we’re such an important customer, they’ll have to talk to us.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. They have a monopoly on Imperial-class warships. They know we have nowhere else to go.”

Ren purses his lips for a moment, glances down at his boots, then back up at Hux. “Look.” He squeezes Hux’s shoulders. “Do you want to try to fix this, or would you rather keep worrying about it?”

Hux sighs. “When you put it that way-”

“Go tell the navigators we’re changing course.” Ren’s hands drop back to his sides, and his voice softens. “I’ll wait for you, if you want.”

“Here?”

“I’ll-” Ren’s looking at his and Hux’s feet again--at his own half-laced boots in front of Hux’s polished ones. With the drop--of gaze, of voice, of hands moments ago--he transforms from surefooted commander to broken boy. “I’ll sleep better in mine.”

If the transformation were anything unprecedented, it would alarm Hux. As things are, however, he can’t decide if it breaks his heart or suits his plans.

“See you there,” he says, and leaves for the bridge.

* * *

Early the next cycle, the _Finalizer_ lurches out of hyperspace; blue-white starstreaks dissolve into blackness out the viewport, replaced by void, by constellations, and by Kuat. For an industrial world, the planet’s surface is shockingly _green_ \--all forested continents and whorls of turquoise sea.

The view, however, is obscured by the industry itself: the ex-atmospheric orbital of the Shipyards. A belt of satellites, of space stations, of shrouded ships under construction and battered ships under maintenance, encircles the planet, thick enough to look--from a distance--like a natural ring of moons and shattered meteors. Upon closer inspection, the being-made structures take on some definition. However, it still looks more like a junkyard than a fully functioning metropolis and military manufacturing plant, complete with workers’ housing, a spaceport, and a commercial zone. 

But from Hux's vantage point, it looks like nothing but an unnecessary detour, a dazzling green beacon blinking out  _a-l-l-y-o-u-r-f-a-u-l-t_. This is going to eat up far too much time, and it could have so easily been _avoided_ , if Hux hadn’t been stupid enough to presume upon Ren’s- incompetence? depression? preoccupation with the Force? Whatever it was, he should have known better, should have remembered that he’s still--technically speaking, anyway--someone’s soldier.

"Sir?"

It's Bolander, from her workstation. Hux turns from the viewport. "Officer."

"Approaching port in T minus twenty minutes."

"Good," he says. "Direct the hangar techs to prepare the  _Upsilon_ -class."

Bolander assents and presses her earpiece, relaying the message.

They’ll dock the _Finalizer_ at the main spaceport--after all, this is a diplomatic visit, however spontaneous. (Well-armed planetary populations don’t often take kindly to a Star Destroyer hanging right outside their atmosphere.)

The spaceport is oh-so-conveniently located clear across the orbital from Kuat-Entralla’s main offices, so they’ll have to shuttle at sublight over half-the planet, before finally reaching the offices in the early evening. If the Kuatis are the Kuatis, they won’t be working late, which means an overnight stay in a commercial-zone hotel--and a bigger delay in getting back to the _actual_ work.  _(All your fault.)_

Hux swallows a sip of his slowly-cooling tea (more of the citrus, it's growing on him), then sighs down at the pit-stop mass of Kuat. This had better be quick and painless.

* * *

“You _are_ going to help me drink this?” Hux lifts the bottle of wine their Kuati server just set on the transparent tabletop.

After an uneventful sublight trip, Hux finds himself seated across from Ren in one of the Kuati hotel restaurant’s semi-private rooms. Their table is beside a viewport facing the planet below.

“I might.” Ren looks more interested in the plate of Tynnan suuri in front of him, fidgeting with the light knife and mallet that came with the boiled crustaceans.

“Come on.” Hux fills both their glasses, “I ordered the lowest-proof option on the menu. It shouldn’t interfere with your--” He shoves a glass toward Ren and wiggles his fingers for a second, like groping for the word. “--reaching out.”

Ren considers this for a moment, turning the mallet over in his hand. “If you insist,” he says finally, with a faint smile.

Ren drinks, and Hux stirs his own food, pasta with some kind of native poultry and a purple cruciferous vegetable.

Through the open door to the main dining room, the sound of live valachord music drifts in, punctuated occasionally by laughter. The contingency of officers Hux brought have gathered around the bar. Hux and Ren, however, mutually agreed on the private table--it’s best the two highest-ranking officials in the Order avoid an informal public appearance.

Especially not when the Supreme Leader’s going to be eating fucking suuri. Hux twirls a fork through his noodles, trying not to stare--or to breathe through his nose--as Ren lifts the knife and goes at one.

Ren pries off the carapace with an ugly crackle and lays it aside, exposing rows of porous off-white gills. He scrapes them up with a fork and eyes them dispassionately.  
  
Hux grimaces for show. "If you eat those," he teases, leaning across the table to lower his voice, "I'm not kissing you."  
  
Ren snorts. "In that case..." He dumps the gills onto the discarded shell and starts delicately scraping out forkfuls of yellow intestines, heaping them with the shell and gills. It takes him a solid two minutes of fine movements and focused intent before he gets to the meat.  
  
Hux focuses on that instead of the overwhelming scent of brine and the growing pile of guts on the table. "It never ceases to amaze me that you have the patience for suuri."  
  
Ren doesn't miss a beat. "Really I just enjoy dismembering them and beating them with a blunt instrument." He raises his eyebrows, and the corner of his lip quirks upward. “That’s what I’m supposed to say, right?”  
  
Hux rolls his eyes.  
  
Ren snaps off a claw and taps it with the mallet until the exoskeleton cracks. "Also there’s the taste."  
  
"And the opportunity to nauseate me at the dinner table."  
  
Ren picks aside the claw fragments to extract a strip of meat.  Hux can't stop watching his hands. "It never ceases to amaze _me_ that someone from Arkanis can't stand seafood."  
  
"Some kinds are fine. You know I’ve eaten fish with you."  
  
"Right." Ren actually sounds like he's remembering. "It's just crustaceans you can't handle."  
  
Hux spears a purple floret. "Too much of a mess."  
  
Ren is quiet for a moment, cracking open the second claw. "You're getting better with messes these days."  
  
"I've had a glaring lack of alternative options."  
  
"Sorry about that." Ren frowns vaguely, and starts breaking off the legs.  
  
"Yes." Hux stirs his pasta. They sit in silence for a bit, except for sporadic taps of the mallet. Hux stares out the viewport, wracking his brain for a topic of conversation that won't result in an argument, an erection, or a nervous breakdown. _After all this room isn’t_ that _private._

The silence stretches between them. The planet glitters beryl-green below. Through the entrance to the main dining room, a burst of applause marks the end of a valachord piece.

“So—“ Hux swallows a bite. “—you haven’t been to Kuat before, have you?"  
  
"Not to the orbital.” Ren goes to work on another suuri, without looking up. “I went to the planetside once, as a kid. Got to run around some arms broker's plantation for a few days while my moth-- during some Republic-led talks. It's beautiful down there."  
  
"It looks like it."  
  
"You've only ever been to the shipyards.”  
  
Hux just inclines his head, then sips his wine.  
  
“Of course,” Ren says. There’s something unmistakably like _fondness_ in his tone.  
  
"I came a few times, with the Commandant," Hux offers.  
  
“What was _he_ doing on weapons procurement?" Ren lifts and lowers his glass; wine clings to his lips, the finest red line staining the skin around them.  
  
"Guess Snoke thought he was something of a dealmaker."  
  
"Is my price any better than what he got?"  
  
"Even _my_ price is better than what he got."  
  
"Good." Ren takes a sip of wine, glances back out the viewport at the verdant world below. "I'll take you down there someday, when the war's...quieter. When we can enjoy it."  
  
Hux ignores _we_ ; it aches less that way. "You mean when you're Emperor."  
  
"Or whatever I'm gonna be."  
  
Hux raises his eyebrows."You'll need a good excuse to keep dragging me around the galaxy without a war on."  
  
Ren’s smiling (that understated, world-shattering twitch of the lip).  “Or maybe I won't need an excuse.”

Hux smiles down at his plate. “It’s still a terrible idea,” he says. He almost means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up five months late with ^shellfish* I blame college?
> 
> I would like to apologize to Sun-Tse for appropriating a quote from _The Art of War _into Hux's signature block, and proceeding to misattribute it to a Sith philosopher-tyrant.__
> 
> Also: You may notice this is now a four-part story... yeah. Chapter 3 got out of hand. But the second half is fully written, and will be up next week. *insert thumbs-up emoji*
> 
> (come say hey on tumblr [here](https://imperial-huxness.tumblr.com))


	4. iiib.

"There will be time, there will be time  
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;  
There will be time to murder and create,  
_And time for all the works and days of hands  
_ That lift and drop a question on your plate."

(T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock)

* * *

 “The Kuatis are going to think we’re absolute idiots tomorrow.” Hux says it mostly to annoy Ren, whose lips are on Hux’s collarbone, slowly working downward, and whose ideal post-coital conversation is anything but this.

“Don’t they already?” Ren murmurs, then resumes kissing. His hair tickles Hux’s skin as he leans over him.

For propriety’s sake, Hux had had two single rooms booked for himself and Ren, reasonably confident it would be a waste of credits. Sure enough, after Ren’s _take-you-down-to-Kuat_ remark, there had been no way he’d sleep alone.

“I mean it,” Hux says. If he can control nothing else, he can at least bore Ren with shoptalk. “They’re going to fall out laughing when we try to explain how they conned us--’Lady Kuat, we’re afraid you’ve taken advantage of our dysfunctional sexual liaison and the resulting communication deficit.’”

Ren’s quiet for a moment, lips hovering over Hux’s heart. “So that’s what you’d call this?”

Damn, there goes the shoptalk.

“Have you got a better term?” Hux replies.

“Close political partnership.” A peck above the heart and one along the sternum.

“Doesn’t that imply a healthy level of consultation?”

“Okay.” A peck near Hux’s nipple. “Physical union.”

Hux laughs. “As in, ‘Apologies. Our union of body has overwhelmed our union of purpose’?”

“Tortured romance, then.” Ren looks up, leans up, and quirks an eyebrow. “Is that better?”

Hux runs his fingers through Ren’s hair. “Try _symbiosis_.”

“Intimate friendship.” Ren starts all over with Hux’s face, pressing his lips to his temple.

“Mutual exchange of services.”

“Unflagging personal devotion.” A kiss to the jaw.

A sigh. “Compromised professional regard.”

“Do you want me to keep going?” Ren pauses, lips just over Hux’s, their breath mingling.

 _Yes. Yes, and never stop._ But Hux has already been inside Ren once tonight, and neither the conversation nor Ren’s mouth is going anywhere good.

Hux tucks a strand of Ren’s hair behind his ear, keeping him at a distance. “I don’t want to be falling asleep during the meeting tomorrow.”

“I’ll handle it, if you do.”

 _Sure_ _, you will._ Hux smirks. “And I don’t want you _over_ sleeping the meeting tomorrow.”

Ren glances at the ceiling, but smiles. “Understandable.” He rolls off of Hux, but doesn’t quite make it to his side of the bed.

Hux dials down the lights and turns over onto his side, putting his back to Ren. They lie in silence for a minute before Ren’s looped an arm over Hux’s waist. He pulls Hux to his chest and wraps the rest of himself around him.

“Well,” Hux says, fighting for an unaffected tone. “Goodnight?” But pressed into Ren like this--all the warm solidity of him--Hux smiles invisibly into the darkness.

“I can sense that, you know.” Ren kisses his neck.

“Sense what?”

“You’re happy.”

Hopefully Ren can sense him rolling his eyes, too. “Good _night_.”

* * *

Hux awakens to a shout, to movement in the bed beside him, and the panic of _where-am-I_ . His stomach dips, and some well-conditioned part of his brain blares _skirmish skirmish, under attack_. But he catches his breath and quiets his instincts.

 _Kuat. Hotel._ He blinks up at the dark blur of the ceiling and lets it come back to him. _Ren, and some absurd idea that sounded dangerously like shore leave together._ Getting Hux in here had probably been exactly what he’d intended by it.

It isn’t as if Hux’s presence isn’t doing any good, though. Judging by Ren’s violent movements and the rattling of his lightsaber against the nighttable beside him, he’s deep in the Force’s grasp. The air in the room is thick and heavy, as if buzzing with static electricity and ready to ignite. These damn dreams of his.

Ren's thrashed half the blankets onto the floor. The other half are twisted around him in a sloppy chrysalis that leaves only Hux's feet and ankles covered. Hux registers the gooseflesh covering the rest of him and sits up as delicately as possible, rubbing at his upper arms for warmth.

Ren's thrashing still, the rustling of the sheets punctuated at intervals by the sharp, wordless cries that woke Hux in the first place. He sighs and swings his feet over the side of the bed. Getting back to sleep is out of the question, at least for the moment.  
  
By the sliver of light from the cracked 'fresher door, he gropes his way to the chair where his robe is folded and shrugs it on, then stumbles into the 'fresher over the heap of fallen bedding. He closes the door all the way behind him and pours a glass of water. The chrono on the sink counter reads 0326, which is objectively horrible--and later than expected. He should be surprised Ren made it this far through the night. Unfamiliar sleeping arrangements tend to do an ugly number on his subconscious.  
  
Hux shuts his eyes and runs a hand through his hair, leaning against the counter till it digs into his hip. What the hell is he supposed to do.  
  
He could always just leave. _You shouldn't be here in the first place, can't you stay away from him one_ fucking _night-_ \- A quick exit would be a perfectly valid course of action if it weren't half-past three and an inopportune time to be seen slipping out of the Supreme Leader's hotel room in one's dressing gown.  
  
Gods. Sipping at his water, Hux slides out of the 'fresher, leaving the door barely ajar behind him. A thin yellow beam of light stretches across the floor and onto the bed. Ren thrashes in and out of it, throwing shadows on the wall.  
  
Hux makes his way to Ren's side of the bed. He stands over him a moment, drinking slowly, spare hand in the robe's pocket. It's a detached feeling, like watching a firefight via holo--a sort of cold, dissociated objectivity, where explosions against the viewport would induce panic.  
  
It's been years since he saw Ren this bad. But then again, there's always been the implicit assumption that he never sees the worst, that his presence is the thing keeping it at bay. _You know that's what this week has been for. You get off and he gets a damn security blanket._ That may or may not be true. Regardless, Hux somehow doesn't find it offensive.  
  
He drains the glass of water and sets it on the nighttable next to him. Ren cries out again, and his eyelids are quivering, muscles spasming underneath. Hux can hear his breathlessness between the creaks of the mattress and the chafing of the sheets.  
  
Something turns over in Hux's stomach. (The holo goes out, and the explosions rattle the transparisteel, and suddenly this is real and close and terrible.)  
  
Hux rationalizes: neither of them is going to sleep well the rest of the night at this rate. He inhales and leans over the bed. Ren's back is to him, and he's in the light. Hux places a hand on his shoulder.  
  
For one, seemingly infinite instant, his hand rests there in the strip of light, ghostly against Ren's skin. For that instant, nothing happens.  
  
The next instant is a blur. Ren flinches under Hux's touch, then he's rolling over and his hand is on the nighttable, wrapped around his lightsaber, and his feet are on the floor.  
  
Hux's chest goes hot and then cold, tingling as a wave of energy hits it. He collapses backward onto the mattress, and a flare of red pierces the darkness. It's like his limbs are cast in duracrete; his heart thunders in his ears. _This is it, this is how you go, zero three hundred in a foreign space station, fuck, fuck, gods at least it's_ him--

Everything goes slow and clean and clear. The blade hums between them, spitting sparks onto the duvet. Its point hangs centimeters from Hux’s chest; it radiates a pinprick of heat onto his skin. Ren gasps above him, all shadow in the red light. His eyes dart across Hux's face, wild at first, like a hunted thing--then they shut for a moment.  
  
Ren purses his lips and all but stumbles backward. The blade retracts, and the pressure lifts from Hux's chest and arms. Ren collapses back onto the bed, on the edge of it as Hux sits up beside him. Hands shaking with receding adrenalin, Hux straightens the robe's collar and tries to regulate his breathing.  
  
"What the _fuck_ , Ren," he says after a moment, voice still unsteady.  
  
"You know better than to wake me up." Ren's tone is utterly flat. Add a little static, and it would sound like the vocoder.  
  
Hux hardly registers this, more focused on the fact that Ren's threatened Hux's life, and somehow it's _Hux's_ fault? No. Fuck no.  
  
"You know better than to sleep with that thing when someone's in bed with you," Hux shoots back. "It's begging for an accident."  
  
Ren turns the lightsaber over in his hands, fiddling with the activator switch. "After this long," he says, tautly, "I should be able to trust you not to trigger me to use it."  
  
Hux pops his lips. "What am I supposed to do then, just stand by and watch you-" He cuts himself off before he can sound too sympathetic.  
  
"Watch me what?" Ren looks at him expectantly, dark eyes all pupil in the dim room.  
  
No confessions. Ren doesn't deserve them when he's being this... _Ren_ about whatever just happened here.  
  
Hux shakes his head. "I'm just trying to sleep." He enunciates each word distinctly. "I can't when you're thrashing about and making a racket."  
  
"You're just trying to sleep," Ren echoes, with the faintest tint of skepticism.  
  
"Yes, Ren. Seeing as I imagine I should be well rested for the talks tomorrow."  
  
"Really?" Ren glances up from the lightsaber, tilts his head slightly backward. "Then what are you doing in here in the first place?"  
  
"I was fucking you, now I'm..." Hux fumbles for something - anything - besides _worrying about you -_ "...watching out for you." Not much better. Sure enough, Ren latches onto it.  
  
"What do you mean, 'watching out for me'?"  
  
Hux folds his hands, focuses intently on a dark scuff on the wall in front of him.  
"You've indicated that it helps, so I indulge you. It hasn't put my life in immediate danger before."  
  
"It only _helps_ when you do it on my terms." Ren's voice is tighter now, and a note louder.  
  
Hux looks at him, then rolls his eyes. "Fuck, Ren, I must have missed the pre-sex contract. You should just draw one up every time you want me in your bed."  
  
"I didn't ask you tonight, and--" Ren's fingers dig into the sheets. "--you know what it's like--what I'm like, in a different location. Why are you still here?"  
  
"What are you trying to get me to say?" Hux unlaces his fingers to cross his arms. "I just didn't want to get dressed and go back to the other room. It didn't occur to me that surviving the night would be a problem."  
  
"Hm." The edge to Ren's tone dulls, just a little. "You do trust me."  
  
"I didn't say that."  
  
Ren's eyes flash. "If you don't trust me, then why did you stay?"  
  
Good gods. The man is unquenchable. "I have no idea what you want me to tell you. One moment you don't want me 'watching out' for you, the next--"  
  
"I never said I didn't want--" There's unmistakable heat in Ren's voice now, but Hux still cuts him off.  
  
"Well, you sounded awfully offended by it."  
  
"Because you have to help in the right way," Ren retorts. His fingers still toggle the activator switch. "You can't just do whatever you think will... _fix me._ " He says the last two words like spitting out poison.  
  
Some distant part of Hux is aware that one slip of Ren's grip would end him, bisect him like Snoke. Ugly way to go. But it's not like Hux can just sit here and take this.  
  
"Fix you?" Hux raises his eyebrows, audibly scoffs. "I'm not trying to fix you, Ren. Do you have any idea how much I stand to benefit if you're broken?"  
  
"Like you did this week."  
  
It's like a rock has dropped into the pit of Hux's stomach. _He's onto you_. "What do you mean?" It still comes out sharp.  
  
"You, playing Emperor while I'm otherwise occupied." Ren's hand tightens on the hilt, blanching his knuckles.  
  
"And doing just fine at it without you." _Fuck you, you shouldn't say that, he's going to-_ "Is that a threat?"  
  
"No." Hux inhales, tries to blunt his tone. "I'm just saying that I have what I want. In light of that, you're lucky I'm here at all."  
  
"I don't need you here," Ren says, harsh and ragged.  
  
"Good." Hux stands. "I was just leaving."  
  
"Good."  
  
Ren says nothing else and dials up the lights. Blinking in the brightness, Hux quickly dresses. Uniform tunic halfway over his head, he hears the shuffle of sheets, Ren laying back down. At least he's not watching Hux.  
  
Looking vaguely professional again, Hux stops at the desk near the room's door to finger the two silver keycode cylinders resting on it. They're etched with the numbers of the two single rooms whichever officer did the booking had rented. It looks like both rooms will be of use after all.  
  
"Which of us is this room booked for?" Hux asks Ren's back. Ren's curled back into the sheets, but he's far too stiff to be asleep already.  
  
"I don't know," comes the reply, half muffled into the pillow.  
  
"But this is 314?" Hux taps the cylinder against the tabletop.  
  
"I think."  
  
Helpful. Hux sighs and grabs cylinder for the other room, 320. He crosses the floor, but stops in the doorway.  
  
"The meeting is at oh-eight hundred, Supreme Leader." He's not about to get blamed for Ren oversleeping.

"I'm aware," says the nest of sheets. "You’re dismissed, General."

* * *

At 0745 Hux reaches the secure conference room in the Kuatis' main office complex. It's a small, low-ceilinged room with off-white paneling and a synth-stone floor in the same color, shot through with streaks of grey.  An oblong table with a transparent surface dominates the room's center, surrounded by spherical seats, a few of which hover about half a meter above the ground.  
  
At the end of the table nearest Hux sits Ren, looking--in his dark robes--like a void that's opened up in the whiteness of the room. His datapad rests on the tabletop between his elbows, and there's a flimsi cup by his left hand.  
  
"Supreme Leader," Hux says, dismissing his Kuati escort with a gesture. The doors slide shut behind him.  
  
Ren looks up over his shoulder. He's quiet for a moment, then says flatly, "They have some of your tea in the break room." He jerks his head toward an open entrance in the conference room's far wall.  
  
“Oh,” Hux says. "Good. If you'll excuse me I'll go and--"  
  
Ren flicks his wrist at the cup in front of him, and it slides across the tabletop toward the seat on his left. Wordlessly, he turns back to his datapad.  
  
Hux snorts, sits warily. This is a pathetic excuse for an apology.

And yet: Hux lifts the cup.

"It's easier when we don't do this," he says, between sips.

Ren glances up. "Do what?"  
  
"Care."

"So you'll admit that's why you woke me up last night." Ren shifts just enough in his seat to look smug.

"I didn't say that." Hux takes another sip, and stares straight ahead.

“Hux,” Ren starts, “I’m--”

Hux cuts him off. "They probably have an audio feed in here. We shouldn't be discussing--"  
  
"Right," says Ren, too quickly.  
  
Ren turns back to his datapad, and Hux takes out his own. They sit in silence, and Hux sips at the tea. It's been long enough since he's had Tarine that the bitter herbs sting his eyes and throat. It's fine--he'll build up his tolerance again quickly. He drinks slowly, savoring each swallow, as a few Kuatis trickle in, all in bright robes and jeweled headdresses. They assume seats on the opposite side of the table and murmur amongst themselves.

The Kuat of Kuat herself, however, is fashionably late. She enters at 0810 in a swirl of green robes. It probably took her the extra ten minutes to apply enough makeup to get her lips bright blue; it’s caked on thick, but smoothed over. She’s talking before she’s sat down.

“Gentlemen, I’m afraid you’re a bit early to pick up your battle cruisers.” The hovering chair at the head of the table rotates toward her, and she sits. “Unfortunately even _we_ aren’t quite efficient enough to have them done in a day.”

Hux sits up straighter, laces his fingers together on the tabletop. He clears his throat and begins, “As chance would have it, we’ve come to lighten your workload.”

“Oh?” The Kuat of Kuat’s mouth hangs in a blue circle for just a moment after the sound leaves it. It creates a poor impression of curiosity.

“Due to a...bureaucratic mishap, we’ve placed a duplicate order. We’re here to request cancellation of the contract I authorized, as well as a full refund of the associated down payment.”

The Kuat of Kuat clucks her tongue once, then shakes her head. “My apologies, General Hux. But you of all customers should know that every Kuat-Entralla contract is unconditionally permanent and binding. I’m unsure what you think there is to discuss here.”

The rest of the morning goes about that well.

* * *

They break for an hour at 1200. After updating the officers waiting down in the office construct’s atrium on the lack of progress, Hux finds himself sitting across from Ren in the break room.

There are some refreshments in here, mostly leftover breakfast pastries, which smell inexplicably of lye. Ren’s picking at one, so they must not be poisoned. Still, Hux hasn’t touched them.

He managed to take long enough making a cup of tea to give Ren the first chance to offer some commentary on the morning, to no avail. He clears his throat.

“Generally,” he starts, “this would be an appropriate time to go find one of the entourage and make a private arrangement. However--” Hux blows on his tea, and doesn’t look at Ren. (At least they’ve got Tarine up here.)

Ren jumps in before Hux can continue. “We can’t bribe them if we don’t know how much of a cut they’re getting off this. Right.”

Good. At least they’re on the same page with this.

“Well,” Hux replies, “could you _find out_ then?” Surely Ren could scrape that much off the surface of one of the bureaucrat’s brains.

“I tried,” Ren says, tersely. “They don’t seem to know, either. Even the Kuat of Kuat isn’t thinking about it.”

“Lovely.” Hux picks at the seam of the flimsi cup. “Was that the _leverage_ you had in mind?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then why aren’t you applying whatever leverage you _were_ thinking of?”

“I want to try your way a little longer. It’s...neater.”

“My way? It wasn’t even my idea to come here, R-” He chokes on the syllable.  “--Supreme Leader. And if your leverage is...not neat, we’re likely better off just leaving than risking it.”

Ren looks at him for a long moment. “No,” he finally says. “We’re getting what we came for. I just want to exhaust your way before we try something else.”

“How long is it going to take to exhaust it, then? We’ve already lost a cycle and a half that we could have spent looking for _your_ Resistance ship. We can’t keep wasting our time here.”

Ren purses his lips for a second. “We’re going to give it,” he says slowly, “a little longer.”

* * *

It wasn’t as if Ren were the lead negotiator this morning, but in the afternoon, he goes effectively taciturn. Hux argues and wheedles and twirls his datapad’s scarcely-used stylus between his fingers. Occasionally, he scrawls a comment on his datapad and passes it silently to Ren, who nods and resumes staring around the table.

For a while, Ren focuses intently on the Kuat of Kuat. She’s wearing too much makeup to reveal a flush, but she returns Ren’s gaze so keenly that Hux can’t help but notice. Can’t help but bristle, and stumble (just once or twice) over his words. Even after Ren moves his focus back to one of the lower officials, Hux still feels like he’s been hollowed out with a spoon.

The chronos on the wall, each displaying a different time zone, tick off the hours, pulsing blue with lost time. Hux gets his own contract cancelled with promises of future business--the restoration of the rest of the Order’s fleet, a hint at a contract for something like an Imperial Navy, perhaps a bit sooner than is realistic.

But eventually, progress stalls.

“Due to the costs already sunk into materials for the four ships on your order,” says the Kuat of Kuat’s deputy, a slight figure with an emerald in his turban, “we cannot offer you more than a ten-percent return, on top of the cancellation. That is our final offer.” He knocks twice on the tabletop, then uncurls his fingers and flicks his wrist to the side, as if swatting an insect. It’s the Kuati hand signal for _we’re done here_. Wonderful.

Hux represses a sigh and lifts his stylus to his datapad, ready to scrawl anything but _Now what?_.

Surprisingly, Ren speaks up before he can. “The General and I would like a moment in private.” Hux half-imagines the pause, but it still sends some kind of idiotic rush to his head. “To deliberate.”

“Very well,” says the deputy. “We’ll disband for a half-hour break.”

The Kuatis leave the room, but Ren stays seated.

“So,” Hux says, after a minute.

“So.” Ren looks over at him, for the first time in hours.

“So, are we actually going to deliberate, or--”

“Give me a moment.” Ren’s tone is firm, but not sharp. He turns his head away from Hux, back toward the blinking chronos.

Hux gets up in silence and ducks into the break room. He should probably go down and check in with the officers again, but it’s only a half-hour recess, and who knows, Ren might just decide to be useful.

Hux makes another cup of tea, hovering by the counter. When he turns around, cup in hand, he finds Ren blocking his exit.

“Come with me,” Ren says abruptly. One of his hands is splayed against the doorframe, like a scuff on the strange white metal.

Hux sets his cup down. So much for the tea. “Where are we going?”

“To visit the Kuat of Kuat.”

“What for?” Hux schools his features out of a scowl. He can still see her gaze on Ren, soaking in his features like she could drown in them. “I thought we’d ruled out private arrangements.”

“You’ll see.” Ren turns, and Hux has no choice but to follow.

There’s a turbolift in the corridor outside the conference room, and the chief executives’ offices are on the top level of the construct. Hux presses the appropriate button and reflexively  clasps his hands behind his back. The lift lurches upward.

Hux pops his lips and decides to try his luck again. “So,” he says, a bit loud over the hum of the lift, “you’re going to what, get her into bed, run her through with your lightsaber?” He paces a single step, but can’t get farther. “One or the other? Both?”

Ren looks at the lift’s ceiling. It’s mirrored, Hux notices, but with a material that blurs and stretches their reflections.

“Hux--” Ren starts, but trails off before he can manage another word. He gnaws his lip and glances down. “No,” he says. “Neither.”

Hux wrangles the corners of his mouth into what is probably a ghastly excuse for a smile. “Glad to hear I’m special, then.”

“Hux--” Ren says again, and steps toward Hux, eyes darting across Hux’s face, half-glistening.

But the lift stops with a ding, and its doors slide open. What must be a Kuati maintenance worker enters, judging by his stained, shabby headdress and laden toolbelt. He bows his head toward Hux and Ren, and they ride the rest of the way to the top floor in silence.

* * *

 The Kuat of Kuat’s office is past a vacant reception area. It’s marked by a single bright white set of doors in a row of unremarkable durasteel entrances to other executives’ offices. Ren presses a comm panel mounted beside the doors, announces himself and Hux in a tone so tense it wavers. Hux clasps his hands behind his back as the doors whir open.

The office is as bright white as the doors and conference room, but low-ceilinged and intimate. A few rose-pink armchairs sit in one corner of the room; two bejeweled vibroblades hang in an X on the wall above them. They look blunt.

The Kuat of Kuat herself is behind a synth-wood standing desk, examining a monitor. She steps to one side of it to allow Ren a full view of her.

“Supreme Leader,” she says, with a calculated smile. Her gaze flicks up and down Ren’s form. “Come to make me a private offer?” As if an afterthought, she nods to Hux. “General.”

Hux doesn’t nod back, and Ren ignores the question, taking a step toward her. Hux follows, all but shoulder to shoulder with Ren.

“You’re aware of my abilities,” he says. “My relationship to the Force.”

The Kuat of Kuat adjusts her headdress. “Isn’t the whole galaxy supposed to be?”

Oh, _gods._ Just what Ren needs to hear when he’s done literally nothing of use for a week: that his reputation still precedes him. But if he can _use_ his reputation--without fucking up their progress--well, Hux isn’t sure he can complain.

“Because of my abilities,” says Ren, “I’ve become aware of a threat to you. I assume you’ll want the information.”

“In exchange for your money?” she scoffs. “Some vague mystical powers are terribly convenient for you right now, aren’t they?”

“I’m prepared to make a demonstration.”

Shit. Hux murmurs,“ _Ren,_ ” nearly an admonishment, and resists the urge to grab his sleeve.

“Oh?” says the Kuat of Kuat.

“Take your blaster out of your desk.”

She does so, fingers the trigger. “Alright,” she says.

“Now shoot me.”

A shadow of confusion briefly crosses her face, but it’s replaced by a condescending smile. “So you’ve rehearsed a party trick to scare me. Not sure I’m impressed. Let’s see--” And in one fluid, rapid motion, she raises the blaster--and fires it at Hux.

He barely has time to register the red streak of plasma arcing toward his chest before it stops halfway, frozen, as if blocked by an invisible wall.

Hux hears Ren’s strained voice before he sees his outstretched hand: “You don’t _touch_ him!”

Hux’s pulse hammers in his ears. He inhales, counts, and exhales on three. Gods. Fuck. Fucking nerve-wracking way for her to test Ren’s abilities.

With a twitch of Ren’s fingers, the bolt reverses course, streaking slowly backward to hover between the Kuat of Kuat’s eyes. Ren follows it, hand still raised, till he’s chest to chest with her.

“You _don’t_ touch him,” Ren repeats, through his teeth. The bolt presses closer to her skin. She cries out, wincing, as it singes her skin. There’s a smell of burning concealer.

For fuck’s sake. He’s going to shoot her in slow motion.

One, two, three, and Hux inhales shakily. “Ren.” His voice is clearer than he’d thought. “We need her.” _Need her alive, undamaged, and willingly compliant._

“We do,” Ren says, withdrawing his hand, just slightly. The bolt pulls back with it, still precariously near the Kuati’s forehead, but no longer close enough to burn. He addresses her: “Care to hear about the threat now?”

She swallows. “Go for it.”

Hand still extended, Ren starts a slow circle around her, like a predatory avian. “Your deputy and several others on your board are planning to eliminate you.”

She’s disbelieving--of course she is--and Ren explains something about a day-long mind probe.

“They think you’re spending too much effort on the company’s commercial contracts, not enough on your military deals. It’s lowering their sections’ profits, draining their commissions.” Ren stops moving, for just a moment. “They’re going to remove you for it.”

The Kuat of Kuat’s lips pucker into an angry blue line. The Kuatis are a distrusting people, and whether Ren’s bluffing or not, he’s playing her right.

  
It's been too long, Hux realizes, since he watched Ren work. It used to be an unspoken routine: capture the prisoner, seal the doors, stand in the corner, and simply _watch_. In the system, Hux justified it as compliance monitoring, or something equally dry and bureaucratic, but the truth had been absurdly messy. Like most things concerning Ren.

Now, he circles the Kuati with careful strides, threatening. Apparently the conspiring deputy is going to use Hux and Ren’s visit to his advantage, send some kind of message Ren’s predicting.

Ren should be wearing the mask for this--it would feel _righter_ like that--but the mask is in a thousand pieces, in a broken refuse compactor, aboard a shipwreck parsecs away. Having to watch his face while he does is a new distraction.

But it’s not as if it’s some kind of turn-on now. It never was, even though it could have been, with the low, coaxing cadence of Ren's voice and his hand outstretched, quivering: the sheer concentrated power of him.

It could have been, with how he'd sometimes take off the mask, and the prisoner would blanch, last hopes guttering. (If you see the monster's face, you're dead.) Hux would stand in the corner and bask in his own survival. He'd bask in how the beast was only tame for him, would curl around him, crying, holding on like Hux was a rock in a storm.

The contradiction should have unsettled him. It still should, with Ren _in charge_ now, but instead Hux feels something like relief. (If Ren can still do this, he’s alright.)

“When you do as he suggests and accommodate us,” Ren says, voice steady, low, calm, “he’ll use that decision as evidence you don’t value your military customers. He knows you won’t admit you’d taken his advice.”

“Bullshit,” says the Kuati, without conviction.

Ren ignores her. “His same message will invite you to a dinner party at his estate. You won’t come back from it.”

She starts to reply, but her monitor suddenly dings with what must be a notification.

She glances at the screen a meter away, then nods toward the bolt. “Do you mind?’

“Feel free.” Ren keeps the bolt in front of her head as she walks over to the monitor, taps at it with a stylus.

“ _Shit_ ,” she says after a moment.

Ren keeps his face impressively blank. “Now you owe me a life debt,” he says. “I have no use for your life, I just want my credits.”

The Kuati’s indignant, but frightened. How does Ren know, she asks. How _could_ he know.

“The same way I know why you want to steer away from military contracts.”

He keeps walking. In some ways it’s like watching a doppelganger of Ren, some cold, impassive ascetic with his voice and face, not the man who slashes walls and trembles and lives on the verge of tears. Watching him had once been nearly relaxing, like viewing an opera, or watching someone paint.

Hux used to think Ren was like a street artist he’d had seen somewhere in the Outer Rim, one of those artists who start with a single stroke, and don't tell you what they're drawing. The scene morphs before your eyes in a matter of minutes--smudged streaks of sky, mountains out of crooked lines, a lake made of dim reflections, bordered last.

(Ren circles the Kuati, and his voice is smooth.)

Stroke by stroke, the image emerges: out of chaos, beauty--and a solid goal, an object. The fascination is in watching it happen, uncertain: _Where's he going with this? What's he trying to get across? That blur over there, what's that supposed to be?_ A waterfall? _I would have done it differently._

Hux isn’t sure if Ren’s actively drawing out her memories now, but by the tears in the Kuati’s eyes, she’s clearly reliving them.

Too caught up in the sharpness of Ren’s gaze, and the controlled tremor running like a current under his voice, Hux doesn’t catch everything he tells her, but the main theme is an Imperial governor who refused to understand the word _no_. Not from her mother, who used to run the company--not in the boardroom, not in the bedroom; nor from herself.

It’s going to work, Hux realizes. Ren’s got the imminent threat of the blaster bolt, the obligation that comes with his warning, and now her whole life’s story. He could have just threatened her, or overridden her mind, but this--this will create lasting intimidation, lasting _loyalty,_ of a sort. (And he looks damn good doing it.)

_I would have done it differently._

But when the street artists signs his name at the bottom of the canvas, it's impossible to argue with him.

“No matter what they pay you,” Ren is saying at last, “you think every politician you do business with will take and take and take. So you’re weaning the company away from it. And you’re going to die for it.”

The Kuat of Kuat’s chin quivers. She blinks rapidly, but says nothing.

Ren continues, “And if you don’t transfer our credits, I won’t tell you which board members are in on it.”

When the artist steps back, fingers speckled with paint or chalk or ink, it's like waking from a trance. So Hux used to stand in the corner and lose himself.

And he’s- he's missed _letting go_ like that.  
  
The thought hits him like a cold shaft, like a chink in armor: He's missed it. Missed _this_ . Somewhere along the way, however, he'd taken to waiting outside.  
  
The bolt hums, trapped between Ren’s fingers and the Kuati’s skull. Hux imagines it arcing backward again, tearing between his ribs. _Today would have been the day to stay outside, you idiot, you shouldn’t have come, you’re just blindly following him, you--_

No more.

The Kuat of Kuat stays quiet for a moment, and then: “Send the names.”

“Send me the credits,” Ren says.

She turns back to the monitor, then gestures to the blaster bolt.

“Do you mind?” she repeats.

Ren lowers his hand and sends the bolt through the opposite wall in a flare of red. It leaves a burned-black pockmark in the white wall. Trance broken.

The Kuat of Kuat turns back to her monitor, and Ren glances around, makes as if to pat his tunic pocket.

Of course he left his in the conference room. Hux crosses the floor and hands Ren his datapad.

“Here.” Ren’s fingers brush his as he takes it. Even through the glove, Hux’s skin feels suddenly hot, prickly. Damn Force.

Within minutes, Ren’s sent her a secure message with the names, and she promises the funds have been transferred. Ren just nods to the Kuati before leaving the room. Hux thanks her.

* * *

Passing back through the empty office suite, it’s impossible to tell if it's the Force that's causing Ren to all but radiate satisfaction, or just his usual brand of false arrogance--a temporary high. Nonetheless, Hux can imagine it like a shimmer around him, rolling off in waves.  He walks silently beside Hux, staring straight ahead, but there's an uncharacteristic lightness to his step. The smug expression on his face should feel like a persistent itch. 

Yet Hux can't seem to mind. There's something contagious in his, well-- his _swagger_ , damn him, even if his silence shouts, ' _I told you so_ .'  He's enjoying this far too much.  
  
"Well," Hux says, stopping once they're past the reception area, "I'm going to verify this before I let you go on gloating."  
  
"What?" Ren sounds like he's repressing a laugh. "It worked."  
  
Hux pulls his datapad from inside his greatcoat. Sure enough, the screen is lit with a blinking blue notification: DEPOSIT ALERT | DEPOSIT ALERT. He swipes for the details.

It's all there.

Ren peers over his shoulder, hmms faintly. Somehow Hux very clearly hears a sarcastic _how about that._

Hux faces Ren, putting his own back toward the wall. He replaces his datapad and shrugs. "If you've got that covered, what do you need _me_ here for?" he teases.“Besides Kuati target practice?”

“Unintended uses don’t count.” Hux isn’t about to thank-him-for-saving-his-life. “Or at least uses I hope were unintended.”

“You have no idea,” Ren says softly, glancing down. At Hux’s lack of response, he seems to recover himself, meeting his eyes again

"Okay" he says. "You’re moral support. Or something like that.”  
  
"'Something like that.'" Hux raises his eyebrows. "That sounds like a demotion."

He intends a sardonic edge, but it melts, looking at Ren. The air around him seems to hum. His eyes are keen and present. That stupid smug expression washes his features--all the lovely odds and ends of them--with something like pleasure.  
  
"Are you complaining?" Ren’s eyes are bright, and he steps toward Hux, putting them chest-to-chest.  
  
Hux smirks. "About _your_ judgment?"  
  
Ren laughs--a real laugh, however short. Hux can see his teeth when he smiles.  
  
"Hux--" he starts, or maybe it isn't a start at all.

Maybe it's supposed to be a full statement in the single word, because his lips are on Hux's before he can continue. One hand grips Hux's shoulder, forcing him backward, the other is splayed against the wall. The bulk of him presses Hux into the paneling. Hux can feel his backbone digging into the tiles even through the greatcoat.  
  
Hux's hand finds its way into Ren's hair. He widens his stance to let Ren's leg press between his thighs. Ren's lips are wet on his, ravenous, and his tongue is nearly between them when Ren pulls back, looks down.  
  
“I’m sorry," he says, breathlessly. His hand slides off Hux's shoulder. "After last night I’m sure you probably don’t want... this.” Hux shouldn't. He shouldn't. But--  
  
“Well.” Hux loops his arms loosely around Ren’s neck, laces his fingers at Ren’s nape to tangle into his hair. “I suppose I owe you. You did just get my money back.”  
  
“Your money? That’s it?”  
  
“Am I wrong?” Hux lets go of Ren’s neck, starts to run his hands lightly, slowly down Ren’s arms.

“So you mean you owe me a _salary_ ,” Ren says, drily.

“I would call it an _allowance,_ Supreme Leader.” Hux hands stop to grip Ren’s elbows. “But as you wish, of course.”

Ren smirks. “But _that’s_ what you owe me?”

“I was actually wondering if you might prefer--” Hux’s hands hover at Ren’s hips, one movement from pulling them toward his own. _What are you_ thinking _, you’re disgusting, you’re just going to give in to--_

Damn it. This is something altogether different from appreciating Ren’s negotiation tactics.

“Never mind,” Hux says, bringing his hands to his sides. “I’ll stick with the money. You know it’s my strong suit.”

“One of…” Ren glances at the ceiling. “...maybe two or three I can think of.” He’s still wearing that same nearly-laughing expression.

“I’m flattered,” Hux says.

Then Ren shakes his head, expression softening. After a moment he says, “I need you, you know. That’s what you’re here for.”

Hux actively ignores the cannon-blast of heat in his chest. “Yes, you need me to stall all day while you read minds, apparently”

Ren leans in again, so close Hux can feel his breath on his skin again. “No. For--”

 _Just kiss him,_ says some visceral corner of Hux’s brain. _That’s what he wants. Forget about this. You’ve got to_ stay alive. _You’ve got to keep him_ happy _._

But not here, not now. Not in the middle of the hallway at Kuat-Entralla, not when the _Finalizer_ is waiting across the planet, not without an apology, not without _conditions._

Hux curls both hands into Ren’s mantle, and it takes every ounce of his common sense to hold Ren at a distance that way, rather than pull him close. He purses his lips, and studies his fingers, wrapped in the black fabric.

“The officers are waiting downstairs,” he manages.

“So?” Ren says, but the half-imagined energy throbbing around him dissolves, like a holo connection abruptly cut.

Hux can’t stand to meet his eyes. “We should get back to the shuttle.”

“Yeah.”

* * *

Several hours later, Hux sits beside the viewport in a conference room on the shuttle. At sublight, Kuat seems to flow past below the craft, as if the Upsilon-class were suspended in place, caught in a tractor beam above a sluggish beryl-green river. His datapad lies open on the table between his elbows, but he can’t take his eyes off the transparisteel, off the great, vivid mass of the planet below.

 _I’ll take you down there someday._ It does seem a lovely world. Maybe Ren will keep his word. (Maybe he’ll keep Hux alive long enough to have the chance.)

 _You don’t touch him._ It’s possible, anyway.

Something dings, and Hux at first glances back to his datapad, expecting a Holomail alert. But the screen is blank, and a whirring follows the chime--the doors opening.

Ren steps in, gaze darting between Hux and the sprawling viewport. “Hey,” he says.

Hux takes him in quickly, neatly combed hair to black mantle swirling about his calves. “Can’t sleep on this thing?”

“Not interested in trying.” Ren glances down, as if ashamed to blame the nightmares.

Under the table, Hux uncrosses his legs. “It’s a bit too small a craft for--”

Ren cuts him off before he can make it to _‘rough sex.’_ “I know.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“I can go.” Ren curls and uncurls his fingers at his side. He’s wearing his gloves, which shouldn’t be disappointing.

“Don’t.” It comes out sharper than Hux meant it, with an ugly, half-desperate edge. “I mean, you’re welcome to sit.” Hux nods toward the chair across from him.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s a public conference room.” Hux shrugs, glances down at his datapad’s blank screen as if engrossed.

“I don’t want to interrupt if you’ve got reports to read,” Ren says, but he’s moving toward Hux’s end of the table.

“Don’t _you_ have any?”

“I don’t know.” Ren pulls out a chair across from Hux, and its legs squeak against the floor. “Anything worth reading?”

“I think our definitions of ‘worth reading’ may differ slightly,” Hux replies. “Any interest in comtech invoices?”

Ren snorts at that. “Not necessarily.”

“All the same,” Hux goes on, “I should add you to the mission support distro lists. You ought to at least have easy access to their reporting.”

“Why, if you’re reading them?” Ren drums his fingers arrhythmically on the tabletop, an inadequate outlet for suppressed energy. “Division of labor and everything.”

“Yes, but-” Hux starts, then spares a glance out the viewport. Kuat rolls by, filling the pane. “I mean, I’m assuming you’ll take a more active role after this ordeal with the fleet.”

“Should I?” Ren looks at him keenly, almost calculatingly.

“That isn’t up to me.”

“I mean--” Ren’s breath hitches faintly as he pauses. “--would you like me to?”

“Kylo Ren, are you probing me for treasonous intent?” Hux affects something like flirtatious teasing, but it’s a legitimate question.

“No. I just- It’s-” Ren inhales, then his throat tightens with a visible swallow. “What you said last night,” he goes on. “That you have what you want. Was that the truth?”

 _What the hell, Ren._ Hux isn’t sure whether to be flattered or terrified that Ren’s been milling on whatever vitriol Hux spewed last night. Whatever the case, Hux isn’t anxious to revisit it.

“Couldn’t you tell?” Ren’s better at lie-detecting than any psytech’s equipment.

And yet: “I guess not,” he says. “Since I’m asking.”

“I actually find that comforting.” Maybe Hux can get him off on general telepathy ground rules. Anything to distract him.

But Ren shakes his head. “So was it true?” he persists. “Did you mean you’re content with...how things are?”

“What do you mean, _how things are_?”

“You know. Me in command. You doing your legwork and your strategizing. Sex when you want it.” He levels his gaze, and almost smiles. "A close political partnership."

That’s it. _This is what we have._ It’s a shade of what it once was, a holographic simulation where it should be real and solid.

“Are you offering an alternative?” Hux says.

Ren glances at his hands, fidgeting on the tabletop, then back at Hux.“If I were, would you take it?”

Hux measures his response. “I would want to.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

“No, it’s not,” Hux agrees.

Ren’s quiet for a moment. He looks down and delicately pulls off his gloves. “So what would sway you?”

 _A fucking apology._ A fucking apology, and some kind of- of...security guarantee, some kind of vow that _you’re safe with me_ . That _you’re safe_ from _me._ And a promotion, while Ren’s at it.

“Ren, you already know.” And if he doesn’t, he should. If he’s really so caught up in the Force, in bad dreams, in boundless power, in _himself_ , that he doesn’t _know_ , then this is a hopeless cause.

“I do,” Ren says, then reaches across the table and takes Hux’s right hand in both of his.

He wraps one hand loosely around Hux’s wrist, and with the other slips off Hux’s glove. His skin is warm, and his touch is dust-light. He squeezes Hux’s right hand, then moves to the left. 

“Ren, what are you-“ Hux starts.

It’s already done. Ren takes both Hux’s hands, draws them together, and presses his lips to the knuckles, left then right, slow and lingering, with something like reverence. A lock of his hair falls forward, brushes Hux’s skin. There’s no way he can’t feel Hux’s pulse accelerating.

“Is it too late?” he asks.

Hux's throat tightens with something that isn't the Force. His eyes prickle, and he blinks furiously.  
  
"Ren--" Hux offers a weak smile to the tangle of their clasped hands, then looks back up. "Why do you always--" His voice falters, breaks off, as if snagged on a hook in his windpipe.  
  
"Always what?" Ren says, thickly. His eyes are warm. Hux could dissolve in them, and hardly mind.  
  
"Do... _this_. Make it so I can't turn you down." Hux's vision has splintered, all black and silver blurs against the green swirl of Kuat. He shuts his eyes tightly against tears, lips still curling feebly upward, half laughing at himself.  
  
_What are you going to do, fall apart for him?_ But Hux can do little else. For all his preventive blinking, a tear leaks out, hot and damning.  
  
Ren withdraws his hands, covers Hux's fingers with one, and reaches to cup Hux's face with the other. His thumb strokes the line of Hux's cheekbone.  
  
"You can turn me down." Ren makes as if to drop his hand, pressure slackening somewhat on Hux's skin.  
  
It would be so easy. Tell him no. Tell him to fuck off, never mention this again. Tell him _I don't care_ , but to show up tomorrow night anyway. It's obvious from his expression that even then Hux would be quite safe, from everything except a legitimate accident. It would be _so easy_. Yet so inadequate.  
  
Hux reaches up to Ren's wrist, wraps his fingers around it as if to hold Ren's hand in place.  
  
"I don't _want_ to turn you down," he manages, swallowing. "That's the problem."  
  
"Good." Ren's fingers slip down to Hux's jaw; his thumb brushes over Hux's lips.  Hux can feel his skin heating under Ren's touch, flushing, prickling. "I don't want to do this alone."  
  
"I'm here," Hux says, "until--" He cuts himself off. 'Until you run out of uses for me' seems somehow cruel when Ren's touching him like this, tracing the bones in his face like they're made of kyber, like they're holy and fragile.

"Until what?" Ren drops his hand to grip Hux's again.  
  
Hux shakes his head, as if dismissing all conditions. "I'm here," he says. Full stop.

“So I win.” Ren tries to smirk, but he just looks tired. He squeezes Hux's hand. Then his foot is tracing Hux's inner calf, pressure wrinkling the stiff fabric of his jodhpurs. Heat blossoms there, running upward ahead of the contact.

"I wouldn't call it _that_ ,” Hux says. It emerges half a sigh.

Ren’s smiling, blinking the wet shimmer from his eyes. He’s beautiful, and he isn’t letting go of Hux’s hand. If this is defeat, Hux has little use for victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I posted it this week!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's read, subscribed, left kudos, commented--y'all are the best.


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